Snow Pants

All I wanted was snow pants for my daughter.  It was the only thing on my mind.  I didn't want cute booty shorts nor did I really want a cutoff tank top that proclaimed how cute it is to be dressed in pink.  I wanted fucking snow pants because it's negative fucking 10 and the kids would like to go fucking sledding.   I have entered the realm of girls clothing, 8 year old variety.  As you can probably tell, I'm a bit angry about the experience.

First off, I apologize to everyone for going shopping.  Clothes are not my strong suit.  Picking out "cute" things for my children are not where my strengths lie.  I have no idea what matches with what, what goes with what, plaid only with this, white only after labor day, no tennis shoes with a green dress.  I'll admit, I have no idea about fashion.  I have a reason though that I feel is more than enough though to explain why.  When I buy clothes, and this is rare, it is because I am looking at functionality.  If I have to dig a hole for a fence, I'm thinking that I probably need me some jeans.  Just some ordinary jeans.  Do they fit?  Check.  I buy them.  I wouldn't want to wear a sweater to dig a post hole for a fence, so I'm thinking I need a T-Shirt.  Check, I buy that.  Do they match, do they go together?  I have no idea because that is not what I'm thinking about.  I'm thinking about whether I should put in concrete to my post hole or go the easy route and just fill it up with dirt knowing that at some point it's going to lean and I'm going to have to redo it.  So I choose concrete and jeans.  Simple enough.

But in the world of women, children and apparently just about anyone else but me, this is a very stupid thing to do and I can't figure the fuck out why.  I get up in the morning, is it cold?  Yes, wear something warm.  Am I with a baby that will vomit on me?  Yup, wear something dark.  Is my daughter going to kick me in the junk at some point today while we play?  Guaranteed, let's wear the cup.  See, is it that hard?

Apparently it is if all you need is snow pants for an 8 year old.

First off you fashion fucktards, please stop selling next season's clothes before this season is done.  And if you can't help yourself, then please for the love of fuck make it closer to the actual season, say the end of March?  Outside we have 2 feet of snow.  That being the case, I do not think it is appropriate that I buy a bathing suit for my daughter.  She will probably get cold.

I am also convinced that those that determine when spring/summer clothes go on sale have never in their entire lives dressed a child. See, if I buy something for myself and plan to wear it in three months, no problem, it's probably going to fit.  I will look sexy, chicks will dig me.  I get that and accept that.  But my daughter?

I have no idea what size my daughter will be in three months.  She grows like a weed.  She has a different shoe size just about every three months.  Every day I'm throwing out clothes that she has outgrown, clothes that I know for a fact that she has only worn only a couple of times.  What I buy her today is not going to fit her in July.  So knock it off.  I need snow pants in the middle of February.
 And why do I need these snow pants?  Because the snow pants she had in December seem to have shrunk a bit and now her ankles stick out and the waist is to tight and for the ever loving fuck of fuck please just have snow pants when it's still winter.

Let me continue.

Like I have stated previously, I try to buy for functionality which is probably why my wife doesn't like me buying clothes much.  No worries but this was a special case.  My wife is not going to take the kids sledding.  Let's face it, she's delicate and doesn't do "cold" or rolling in the snow very well.  That is Dad's territory in our little family.  She does hot chocolate very well though.

But on occasion I do have to go shopping and I would like to buy something appropriate for my daughter to be active in.  Let me ask you, what is so fucking difficult about this?

First off, let's knock off putting words on the butts of 8 year olds.  She's an 8 year old.   She is not a butt billboard for a soda, she is not a place to put a catch phrase, and she sure as shit doesn't need to look "cute" when being athletic.  The athletic part is what will make her look cute, not the yoga pants that everyone appears to want my 8 year old daughter to wear.  Fuck off you pedophiles. 

And pink, I'm ok with pink for the most part, but come on, aren't we over doing it a little bit?  Not everything that a girl owns should be pink.  Pink gets dirty to quick, it's to hard to get stains out of and it doesn't hide blood very well.  Work with me a little bit.  My daughter plays soccer, I would like her to be able to play without wondering if she is a piece of gum that came with my baseball cards.

Moving on.

Shirts.  Are t-shirts really so fucking hard?  Do they all have to have some sort of heart on them?  Is the peace sign the realm of girls only?  Would I ever put my son in either of them?  No, I would not.  When my daughter is being active, I want her to be active.  When she is playing a sport, I want her to be aggressive.  Sure, I want her to be nice and play by the rules but I want her to kick some ass as well.  I don't want her giving out hugs and flowers when she is the goalie.  I want her to give the death stare to the other player coming to score on her.  There is a place for hearts and peace symbols but let's not make that place my daughters t-shirts or ass.

When Maria cut up those curtains to dress those snotty damn Von Trapp kids, that's what I was talking about.  She made them functional!  She said to the Captain, Listen dillhole, the kids had no play clothes, nothing that can get dirty.  So I made clothes out of a fucking curtain.  You need to be ok with that.  Boom, Maria is my new hero.  

I thought wind pants would be a good substitute for the snow pants, a good pair that is water proof that we can put several layers underneath.  I had to go to the boys aisle to find them.  And yes, they worked perfectly for what we needed as all the snow pants were removed, as well as all the gloves, hats, and anything else that one would need in cold weather that will still be here for some time.  But apparently girls are not allowed to wear wind pants, or athletic pants or anything else of the sort.  I must also apologize to the poor sales clerk that I said "you're fucking kidding me" when I asked him where the girls athletic pants were.  Not his fault, I understand that I may have just been at the end of my rope.  I didn't mean to make you shy away from me quickly.  I can only assume that by my dress of jeans and a tshirt that you inferred that I would have no problem punching you in the face.  I realize that it is not your fault, you are the poor dude that just happens to work there and not the fashionista that made the decision that my 8 year old would be much happier looking like she wanted to turn a few tricks on the playground.  However, if you can get me that persons name and address, we can make amends.

I came home a little upset, as you could imagine.  I railed to my wife who promptly just rolled her eyes.  She says she knows.  She says she deals with it every time she shops for our daughter.  She implied that I am late to the enraged party.  Then she went on to complete her "couples therapy" show.  I think she is trying to hint at something.  God Damn do I hate that show. 

Look, I know that I am late to the rage here but it really doesn't help me to have her not share in my rage in a more direct fashion.  Scream with me, yell with me!  Share my frustrations and do not give me the I told you so look!  I am a white middle aged male, people will listen to me!  The world is set up for my benefit!

Of course, I put that last part in there because I know that my wife will read this and get enraged that I said it, that it is indeed the case, that her gender has not been offered the same perks as me.  She knows that people constantly judge women on whether they stay home or work, that there is a thing called the "mommy wars" and that her motives are up for constant debate.  She also knows that for the most part, other guys think it's cool that I stay home with the kids and I get all kinds of undeserved credit just for going grocery shopping.    I will smile when she rages, I will roll my eyes, and I will go back to watching the X-files.  Nothing makes a person feel better than spreading the rage, even if you have to do it a little underhanded.  Toward the end of her rant, which should be epic, I will mention that there is a senate panel discussing birth control and that it has no women on it, only old white dudes.  

My work here is done. 

Jim The Wonder Dog

Jim the Wonder dog is out there.  He's right past Monkey Island and not to far from the worlds largest 20th century pecan.  They are all just out there, right there.

I am stuck. For a month and a half I have been stuck.  The Tall Texan in me wants to make that an even 2 months.  I have been stuck for two months inside the house.  At the end of this little stickage I fully understand the bear that gnaws it's paw off to get out of the trap.  I respect that three legged bastard.  He is my new hero and if there was a plaque out there honoring him, I would travel to it and leave flowers at it's base.   But I can't because I'm stuck, I can't go anywhere. 

Don't tell me "Hey, Hoss, make sure you go to the grocery store, that counts as an outing!"  I will punch you in the face you unimaginative bastard.  A grocery store is not an adventure, there is no trail to be blazed, there is nothing there that I haven't seen before.  I once went on a quest to the grocery store to find Coconut Milk in a can.  Took me 3 hours, I had to dodge a tank of ferrel lobsters.  But I found it.  That's the most of an adventure that I can get out of a grocery store.

Go to the library you say.  I say line up next to your friend so you can receive your punching right after him.  I have been  to the library enough times to know that they usually carry porn on microfiche as well.  Yea, that's right, antique porn at the library. 

Well, what about the park or take a walk.  You, I'm not even going to deal with you.  Get off my blog, go read about bird watching and then sit at your back window and see if you can see the Pine Grosbeak.  Then write it down in your book and pat yourself on the back for your adventure. 

The stay at home dad life is actually pretty awesome.  In fact, it's the most awesome job in the world.  But the misconception people tend to make when they try to imagine themselves doing it is that they immediately consider flopping in front of the TV and watching hours of reruns with no responsibilities.  The problem however is that children don't usually sit still unless they are teenagers and using the weed to get potted up and if they are, then they don't want to hang with you.  Let me tell you something, that's good for about a week.  After that, your mind turns to mush, you start talking to your best friend the garden gnome and you make dinner plans that revolve around macaroni and chicken nuggets.  It suuuuuuuuuuccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkssssssssss.  Worst of all though, after a week of turning slowly into a type of moss and mushroom growth, you realize that you have missed an opportunity. 

You have missed an opportunity to explore with your kids, to discover the country, to see the oddities that are out there.  You have missed out on the stories that come from them, the silly games you play to get there, the mistakes you made that eventually morph into family legend.  If you want to be a stay at home dad, you want to educate, you want to raise, you want to build character.  It's pretty tough to do that when you realize that the baby is being raised by some crack head singing about friendship.  Those opportunities are gone my man and they aren't coming back and neither will your sanity. 

In December we had a bit of snow.  We couldn't go anywhere.  No problem, we wait it out.  Christmas break, that's our time!  Let's roll!  Nope, we have some chores we have to take care of to be ready for winter.  And a car repair. And we better save some money for presents.  Fast forward past the holidays, let's roll!  Wait, school play.  Ok, what about Tuesday.  No, girl scouts.  Ok, now we have some time off, lets get in the car and go somewhere we haven't been!  Or how about instead let's catch the plague that runs through the family one by one until I'm taking care of everyone while I'm hoping that I'm not shitting my pants.

But this week, we are good!  We are going to take some day trips, we are going to see Jim the Wonder Dog and figure out why he is a Wonder Dog!  What is this Monkey Island, is it actually  monkeys on an island?  Let's go find out!!  The older two kids are in school so we can leave by 9, just Bacon and me, drive an hour, see the thing, meet some locals.  We can eat at some sort of diner that has a very sticky floor and where your beverages are served in red Solo cups (dirty cups and yup, true story).  We can then head back right at Bacon's nap time, bam back by 3, kids home by 4, story time during dinner.  I. Have. To. Get. Out. 

Or how about we dump so much snow on the ground that school is canceled for an entire week and I have to dig 2 cars out at the bottom of a hill.  I have shoveled my drive way 2 times today and I know that I will have to shovel it again tomorrow morning.

It's not that I haven't made the most of the day.  We built a pillow fort.  It was epic.  We fought a spider in it.  We had movie time, a movie that I actually didn't mind.  We have played in the snow, we have had imagination time, we have done SCIENCE!  But we have done them all here.  Look, I love my house and I love my city.  But I would  prefer to love them from about an hour away for a little bit. 

In the 6 years that I have been doing this, I have rarely sat still.  I have seen the worlds biggest ball of twine (it was indeed big), I have glimpsed the largest can of condensed milk, I have toured a castle in the middle of the ghetto.  I have done all these things with my kids.  I have done much more.  I have seen the worlds biggest baseball, the world's largest electric steam shovel.  I have seen statues of people that are nothing more than a footnote in local history.  And in doing these things, I have raised confident kids.  Kids that believe in the wonder of the world, that believe that if they just keep going that they can figure out a way to get the Van out of the mud that we are stuck in (true story).  And they also say please and thank you. 

But most importantly, I have raised kids that have memories of our family and those memories will be with them forever, they will get them through tough times, will make them laugh or smile when it seems that is the last thing that they want to do.  That is what I have done with my time as a stay at home dad.  For me, it's the only way to go.  As the kids get older, we will do more grand adventures.  We will take our summer trips, we will tour Americana, we will road trip the country.  But for now, and for the last 2 months, we are stuck.

Jim the Wonder Dog is out there.  An hour at most, separated only by a highway and a foot of snow.  It's time Bacon Hoss started making some memories of his own.  And god help me, the guy from Yo Gabba Gabba is starting to make sense. 

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. 

Lost time

It exists, that is the only thing we can be sure of. This place, magical, mysterious, cryptic, surrounds itself with shadow, cloaks itself in the unknown. It cannot be measured, quantified or studied. This place follows no rules of physics, natural laws do not exist there. It is beyond time, it lays outside of space. But it is there, that we know and the only way to gain access to this place is to utter this phrase "Kids, get in the car".

Somewhere between the garage door and the actual car, that is the portal to this nirvana of lost time.  I have been there many, many times.  However, I cannot describe to you what is in this place, what creatures may inhabit it, what fauna may cultivate there.  I do not know that I am there when I pass through the portal.  I just, kind of, come out the other side, unaware that I have taken a voyage beyond my own reality.

I do not know if it is malevolent.  I do not know if its intentions with me or my family are pure.  Have I been probed in an anal style?  I do not know for I do not remember anything when I return from there.  And it is odd, because for the longest time I had no idea that I had visited this place.

My discovery came quite by accident.  It was time to leave on an outing.  Probably something awesome because that is how we roll.  You lay people may leave to do chores, perhaps to catch a movie.  When I leave my house, it is to conquer, adventure, to slay boredom with a mighty season pass to the zoo.  No, when I adventure with my kids, we may end up at the store, or some giant steam shovel that stretches to the sky.  Well, unless Hossmom is with us.  Then we have to do practical things like underwear shopping or getting haircuts.  Then it's pretty boring.

I told my kids, and unknown to me, uttered the magic phrase "Kids, get in the car."  The time was 9:28 am.  A bit of a late start for us but that's ok, we had bacon AND sausage for breakfast.  Even our mealtimes are awesome.

I pack Bacon Hoss in his car seat, I help Bubba Hoss with his shoes, I dodge Chinese throwing stars chucked by Little Hoss at my head.  We go through the garage door, I think we did anyway.  We go to the family Van of Vengeance and Destruction.  I put everyone in, we buckle up, we turn on the car.  I look at my clock.

The clock reads 9:43.

This cannot be right?  This bothers me.  I have lost 15 minutes and I do not know how.  Surely it does not take my little pack of minions 15 minutes to get in the god damn car.  Seriously, who takes 15 minutes to get into the car which is only a grand total of 10 steps away?  I dismiss this, perhaps I read the clock wrong.  We go slay some monsters, solve some mysteries, eat some scooby snacks.

We head out again on the weekend.  Soccer games.  8:32AM.  I say "Kids, get in the car."  We get in the car.  The clock reads 8:47am.  This is when I knew that this wasn't coincidence.  This is when I began to suspect that there is some parallel dimension that exists between my car and my garage door.

For the next several weeks, I watched the clocks when we left.  Almost always 15 minutes had disappeared from each morning outing.  Sure, sometimes it was 12 minutes, sometimes it was a bit longer at 19 minutes.

I could not account for the lost time.  I thought perhaps my clocks were wrong so I made sure to set them to the same exact time.  The next day we lost 14 minutes.  I thought that perhaps I was having blackouts and running through the streets for 15 minutes every morning covered in peanut butter.  I checked the peanut butter--jar still full.

I ran experiments.  I told my wife to get in the car to go to the store.  We lost no time, it took us less than 30 seconds to get in the car.  The clocks showed no lost time.  I went to see a movie by myself and uttered the phrase "Hoss, get in the car."

5 seconds elapsed, not 15 minutes.

So the next day I said "Kids, get in the car."  Boom, 15 minutes missing. 

There was only one rational explanation:  a sinister dimension, living next to my own, that survives by sucking away 15 minutes of my life force every time I make the kids get in the car.

Now, I know that the unbelievers, the ones without any faith or humanity, would come up with something more simple than my explanation.  They would point out that my older son never seems to ever put his shoes in his shoe basket and must look for them for an hour.  At which point he will give up and say he can't find them.  At which time I would point to the fact that he is literally standing on them and how in Gods holy fuck can he not notice that when I told him to get his shoes on 15 minutes ago.

They may also say that Little Hoss must constantly ask questions about imaginary things and demand answers to.  Such as how long can dragon warts live, what is a dragon wart, where do I get dragon warts, a kid at school told me about dragon warts, he's a dragon wart, can I have a snack?  This barrage of questions can go on for 15 minutes and I'll be honest, I'm not sure how to answer them so I make shit up.  Dragon Warts can live for eleventeen years, they are warts that live on the butts of dragons but are conscious of their existence, you get dragon warts from dragon toads, yes the kid at school is a dragon wart and no, you cannot have a snack you just had breakfast of bacon and sausage.  I find life is way more fun this way.

And surely, Bacon Hoss may contribute.  He may, say every fucking morning, get his diaper changed right before we are going to leave.  I may put a new one on him, get him dressed and set him on the ground.  I may then on occasion look at him, say every morning, and watch his face go red, his breathing get short and raspy while spittle comes out his mouth as he makes a series of short grunting noises that lets me know he has just taken a massive dump right before we were fixing to leave and right after I changed his diaper.

Those are all very possible explanations as to why I lose 15 minutes telling the kids to get in the car.  But there is one hole in that logic:  it is not awesome.

It is boring, it is mundane.  It is the life of normals, of muggles who go underwear shopping and go 10 miles out of their way because they have a $1 off coupon at the underwear store.  It is ordinary without any plot, subplot, villain, hero or even so much as a preamble.  It is the story of "Hey, the kids are dicking around this morning, we are running late.  Let's get some Starbucks on the way, kisses, smooch."

That is not our life.  Our life is filled with wonder, with adventures, of glories that are wrestled from the mouth of the mundane.  Ours is filled with kids who talk about dragon warts and the case of  strange and interesting invisible shoes.  The Hossman life is filled with a super baby that must expel evil prior to combating the new challenges of the day.

Our life is filled with some mystical dimension that lays somewhere between the garage door an my car, some strange and mysterious place that saps me of 15 minutes of life every time I tell the kids to get into the car and then magically erases the horrors of it from my mind.  That is our life.

Our life is filled with monsters that must be slain, quests that must be taken.  Our life is about over coming impossible challenges, to see an obstacle, conquering it, destroying the bad guy while eating bacon AND sausage for breakfast.

That is our life because that life, the one that we choose to live in,  is way more interesting and fun. 

Maturity

It's not that you have a mortgage or a professional job that makes you feel like you are an adult.  It's not the different ailments that you get as you get older, the recovery time that takes longer.  It's not that you understand what a goiter actually is or that people start putting only 1 candle on your birthday cake rather than you true age that you know that you are becoming more mature.  Those are all things that, sure, come with age but those things don't really give you the "Hey, I'm an adult now!" feeling.  It's more of a "shit, I went to sleep and now my back hurts" thing.

No, what truly lets you know that you've reached adult hood and that you are truly mature, so mature that you can actually tell the difference between knowledge and wisdom, is the things that you actually get excited about now versus when you were younger.

As a kid I would get up at 3 am to play a new video game just so I wouldn't have to share with my brother.  I would be beside myself when it was pizza day at school.  I couldn't sleep at night when I knew that tomorrow we were going to build that bitching ramp and jump that awesome ditch and that girls would be watching and they would think that I'm cool and would want to touch me places although I had no idea where those places were and why I would desire it so.

Those are all moments of true excitement that you lose when you get older.  You find yourself thinking, eh, I don't care what games are out now, stupid kids and their next gen systems.  You think that pizza is going to give you heart burn and the first thing you put on your grocery list is antacid.  And never in a million years would you ever jump that ditch again because you ended up getting hurt and if you got hurt now it would be a good month before you were back to normal because you have the ankles of a field mouse and there is no way that fucker heals fast without 25 trips to the doctors office and some old man calisthenics done in tighty whities.  Although, getting touched by a chick is still pretty awesome.

As you age you lose that joyous wonder at the simple things and you can mark your maturity by what does excite you now.

I'm beside myself with joy when Bacon Hoss sleeps through the night and doesn't wake up before 6am.  This has become my pizza day.  Sometimes the stupid fat dog goes into his room and jumps up on the spare bed we have in there.  She is so happy in her ignorant stupid dog head to be on her own bed that her stupid ignorant dog tail whacks the stupid bed post in a loud "thunk, thunk, thunk" sound.  This wakes the baby.  The baby wakes mom.  Mom wakes Dad.  Dad passes gas and spends the next hour trying to convince the child that sleep is a fucking great thing, much greater than any pizza he will have in any school that he will attend.  The child does not believe me so I usually resort to threats such as "I'm leaving your mother unless you go to sleep" or "I will eat all the cheerios and not give you any unless you go to bed."  As you might expect, he does not listen to me because at 8 months old he does not use logic.  He only screams.  And when I make it through a night without the ninja dog defeating every barrier I have put up to block her fat but from getting in there, I am beside myself with joy.

You can tell in the morning my mood by the breakfast I make.  Cold toast with a side of coffee for the two older kids, Bacon was up at 3 am and didn't go down again until 4.  Pancakes for everyone, sweet sweet sleep.

When I spend the day cleaning the house, it is a shot to my sanity when the kids get home from school in the late afternoon.  For a short period of time, my floors were clean.  There were no crushed grapes on it.  My bathroom did not exhibit the unmistakable marksmanship of a fiver year old and his penis.  Bubba Hoss is not allowed to speak to anyone while taking a leak because he has the bad habit of turning his body and looking at the person while he is peeing.  As I do find this creepy at times, I know that it is because he has the attention span of a squirrel on red bull.  He literally forgets that he is holding his junk and that urine is coming out of it.  "Bubba!" I'll yell at him which makes him jump which makes his aim go high and that's why I've cleaned off pee stains on the top of the toilet from a little man that can barely see over it.  But sometimes they come home and they don't destroy the house that I spent 5 hours cleaning like they are Katrina.  Sometimes, and it's not often, they actually put away their toys, do not throw food on the floor, remember to put up their towels, and don't step on the dog with their soccer cleats so she pee's on the floor.  Mind you, that didn't happen today.  I cleaned all day and Hossmom came home and promptly stepped in a pee puddle right in front of the front door.  That's what she noticed and I can't blame her, heels are not that grippy.  But when everything goes right, it's like Christmas morning.

Hossmom has recently changed jobs.  Her old job had insurance that frankly, sucked donkey balls.  The premiums where high, the deductible was high, no co pays, medications at full cost until the deductible was met and we had to give locks of hair from each of our children to little leprechauns who wanted me to guess their names.  But Hossmom has a new job now and we have a low premiums, much lower than before.  And the deductible is a god damn joke, I spend that much on bandages in a year already (we get hurt alot around here).  We have copays, medication is covered, vision is covered, sweet Jesus in the morning our dental is covered at no additional cost.  Now, I'm not going to get political here, but having crap insurance to having good insurance is an amazing fucking thing.  It's awesome.  It's Christmas morning and your birthday all in two low monthly payments.  This is what gets me excited now, this is the sign of maturity that I was waiting for.  The difference between good health insurance and crappy health insurance.  Ours is all employer based of course so there isn't much of a choice.  You take a job, you take the insurance, you live with it.  But to have one that won't constantly be trying to get me to name my first born to "Aflac" is enough to make me take Hossmom out for a steak dinner and seeing if, after 3 kids, I can convince her to touch me in those unknown places. 

Hell, if she wants me to get the old bike out and jump that ditch I've got no problem with that.  

Cleaning Music

It's not an enjoyable chore but it's one that has to be done.  If it has to be done, then it has to be done right, so sayeth my grandfather.  And to do it right, you must have very loud, very hard core music.  Metal if you have it, grunge for when you are feeling nostalgic and perhaps some 80's ballads thrown in as you silently wonder where today's culture gets their craptacular music. 

The house isn't going to clean itself and you can bet your ass Hossmom won't help.  She'll pretend to help but honestly, she just makes it worse.  She knows how to do it and when she does it, it's actually pretty good.  What she doesn't know how to do though is to clean house with 3 kids trailing you.  Sunday her job was to do laundry.  She was able to wash a sock. 

But that's ok, this is my wheelhouse, I've been doing this for 5 years.  What she is missing is the hardcore music.  She'll have some Celine Deon blaring but that just makes matters worse.  Nope, you need something better. 

A little Black Sabbath is how I always start.  A little N.I.B. or perhaps War Pigs.  Yup, that does it.  Now the juices are flowing and I can get those floors cleaned because Bacon Hoss is now mobile.  Bacon learned to crawl a couple of weeks ago and now he pretty much follows me around the house like a dog.  Which is good because I'm supposed to be watching him.  From watching him I have noticed that he likes to eat paper and poop himself.  Not much gong on there but I appreciate the company. 

After Sabbath finishes up, we get a little SpaceLord, followed by Blur, NIN and Taylor Swift.

I can really vacuum well to some Blur and Taylor. 

Fuck.  Wait, no Taylor.  Just a mistake on that one as we push the fast forward button on our ITunes. 

This is what you need to know about being married with 3 kids, one of whom is a 7 year old girl with a mother that loves the show tunes and sing alongs.  Eventually, you will all just have the same ITunes account.  And then it will all download on your phone.  That's cool, no problem.  I like to see what my wife listens to and what she allows my daughter listen to.  It's no Metallica mind you, but it's wholesome music.  A bit sappy for my tastes, a bit teen angst without the rightous anger, but it's ok.  She can sing about Romeo and Juliet with Mom, coolio.  Sure, I could make my own playlists but that would require quiet and 10 minutes of piece.  This is something I do not have. During the day we adventure, during the night I referee and spend 3 hours doing bedtime for everyone because they need a drink of water, or to be tucked in, or to check a closet, complete a last minute school assignment, snuggle the baby, get more water, the toilets clogged, let's talk about our day and Oh look, Hossmom found a spider and is now hiding in her car. 

My point is, it can get a bit busy.  I am writing this at 11:30 at night. 

I quickly change the Taylor Swift and her broken heart.  I have to go past Aqua and their smash hit "Barbie Girl" and I die a bit inside.  I end up on Rage Against the Machine.  Yup, this will do it.

I am the father to two sons, Bubba Hoss and Bacon Hoss.  It is up to me to show them the ropes, to introduce new challenges to them and to show them the difference between emotion filled classics by Motley Crew and shield them from the travesty that is "The Cup Song" which my daughter and every other 7 year old currently loves.

Rage can get to me, I like the anger, the anti-establishment of some of their stuff.  I don't know why as I have always been pretty much the definition of a rule follower.  Maybe it's the freedom that I can feel through the lyrics, even though I'll admit I can't understand half of them.
 
"Empty ya pockets son; they got you thinkin that
What ya need is what they sellin
Make you think that buyin is rebellin"

That gets me in the mood to start punching stuff.  And when they continue

" 'Cause, baby, you're a firework
Come on, show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y"


That right there gets the blood flowing.  Crapola, wait, that's not rage.  Sorry, a little Katie Perry snuck herself right in there didn't she?  At least the song is uplifting, which is good for my daughter.  I'm a 38 year old man trying to clean house and then go build something out of wood.  I need mood music of my generation, something with a good video with it.  Nirvana, there ya go.  A little teen spirit was the anthem of my last year of highschool.  We all wore black boots and flannel in the Texas heat.  Fuck we were cool.  And in the video when they had the goth cheerleaders, hot.  And it means something although none of us knew the lyrics with Senior Mushmouth but we didn't have to damit!  We just assumed it was about oppressing the suburban kids with high school letter jackets and how we needed to keep a poker face because when it's love , if it's not rough then it's not fun.  God damint, Lady Gaga.


See, this is what shows up on my Itunes.  It's hard to get myself motivated when I've got The Offspring one minute and then Julie Andrews belting out the Lonely Goatherder the next minute.  And don't get me wrong, The Phantom of the Opera is a great set play list and I'm glad my wife and daughter enjoy singing together on it, but would it kill you to throw a little Primus in there?  My Name Is Mud is so under rated. I feel my daughter should know this. 


And let's be honest, I can't get my clean on while Katie Perry roars at a tiger which makes no god damn sense.  You know what makes sense?  Tool.  That makes sense.  Those weird ass video's of little wooden puppets walking around some Hellraiser world.  That spoke to me in my pseudo "I've got problems" early college years. 


So I put on Tool and I angerly scour the toilet.  That's some toilet scrubbing music if there ever was any.  With all of us in the house, our toilets get a work out.  And it's my job to make sure they are tip top shape.  Tool is what is needed, Tool is what I get. 


Then La Seine comes on. 


This is the French version, perhaps you have heard of it.  It's from a movie called Monsters in Paris.  My daughter loves the movie  and the song.  So I found it for her.  I couldn't find the English version but no matter, we sing it in French. 


That's right, I rock right along beside her.  I have no fucking clue what I'm singing but damnit if I don't sing it at the top of my lungs.  I don't even know what La Seine means, what it refers to but it's a good song.  The only thing I"m missing right now is my daughters voice right along side of mine.  Then Bubba Hoss can do a little funny dance that always ends with me tackling everyone and playing tickle monster until we are crying.  Bacon will struggle over and want to get into the action as well so I just throw him on top of the pile and it's a French beat down. 

I get the bathroom done then I put on "The Cup Song" video.  I'm going to learn it and teach it to them when they get home from school.

Bacon Hoss continues to eat paper in a very grunge way.  I am happy.  

The Flying Phone

I was tired.  Just tired. 

Not tired of life, not tired of anyone and not tired of what I do.  I mean I was just physically exhausted.  I was tired as in, ya know, really tired.  I should have gone to bed but I was refusing to.  It was 9:30 and I had just gotten my very own free time.  Normally, I don't pull so many late nights before actually getting to sit down, but on occasion it does happen. 

After the kids got home from school, we had to have a wrestle, all three of us.  Why?  Because those little bastards need to know who's in charge.  One day they will be able to over throw my rule, slip poison into my mead or perhaps convince a jilted lover to seek out vengeance.  But that is not this day.  They need to remember that I can throw them through the air as needed.  When they land on the couch they need to remember how strong Dad is because when I grow weak and old, they shall destroy me.  It will be our final battle. 

That and it's just fun to wrestle with the kids. 

Before to long, it was time to go to soccer practice.  I help coach Bubba Hoss's team and by "help" I mean I mostly just yell at a lot of 5 year olds.  I know nothing about soccer but I can organize men into lines.  That I can do.  Ask me soccer strategy, I got nothing.  Ask me to set up cones and then yell at kids to go in and out of those cones, I'm your man.  Don't ask me why they are going in and out of those cones, I wouldn't know, that's beyond my area of expertise.  I just know that is what they are supposed to do.  Bacon Hoss was with me and Hossmom was not, she was working late.  When she works late, I work late.  Solo parenting at night sucks balls, I do not enjoy it.  After a full day of them and being the awesome that I am, I do get tired.  Bacon didn't want to sit with the other parents on the sideline so he helped me coach a bit.  And I will give my team credit, they hardly tried to hit him with the soccer ball, a big accomplishment for boys that age.  It's either that or they have truly horrible aim, which could also be the case. 

After soccer comes dinner.  I'll admit it, I was to tired to cook.  It was late and I didn't feel like it knowing that I had a full night ahead of me.  But while we were getting our fast food completely unhealthy meal, Bacon Hoss decided that he was hungry too.  He let me know this by screaming the entire way home.  We did make it home and I only had to swerve once trying to get him to be quiet.  At Dinner I played a very fun game with Bacon Hoss called "Feed me, I don't want it."  This is where he screams until he has a spoon in front of his face with some sort of mush on it.  The minute I go in for the delivery he decides to get distracted by something, like a dog that he has seen all day, every day, for his entire life.  Instead of the food going in his mouth, it pops him in the cheek and smears.  He realizes he has bested me yet again and begins screaming signifying round 2. 

After dinner was bedtime, which wasn't actually to bad.  Little Hoss and Bubba Hoss only fought and ignored me 10 times before I lost my shit and threatened to sell them each to the next solicitor that comes to my door.  We read books and usually Bacon Hoss, all of 7 months, usually loves this part.  Tonight, not so much.  He hated reading so much that he made several attempts to throw himself off the bed to get away and only my cat like reflexes saved his neck.  He owes me.  He repaid me by not wanting to go to sleep. 

So when 9:15 rolled around, when everyone was finally in their beds asleep and no one needed a glass of water or to tell me a story of what the squirrel did today at the playground, I was tired.  I was tired and looking forward to watching my football game that I had been recording.  Hossmom finally got home and landed on the couch.  I grunted at her to show her how much I loved her being home. 

I did not see the phone sailing in the air at me.  I should have.  An alert Hoss would have.  Hell, even a younger me would have.  But I was tired and my gaze was fixed on the little people in red and white chasing eachother around the screen. 

The cellphone sailed up, reached an apex at about 32,000 feet and started it's descent reminiscent of a meteor breaking the atmosphere.  When it landed, it chose to hit me in the balls.  The right ball specifically.  And to give my wife and her phone truly all the credit, it came down on my ballsack directly on the corner of the phone like some evil wizard had cast a spell to guide it . It, um, hurt. 

You wouldn't think it would hurt that bad but every guy reading this knows that when you get hit square, velocity really doesn't have much to do with the amount of pain.  There's a sweet spot to nut hitting and her aim had been true. 

The breath rushed out of me along with some spittle.  I slid out of the chair holding my injured baby makers and got to my knees, the universal sign of "ball injury."  I gasped and coughed and tried to sing a lullaby to myself until the pain went away.  After a good 10 minutes, and with my face red, I looked up at Hossmom who was also doubled up, only with laughter and not testicle pain. 

"What the hell man!" I asked her. 

"I wanted you to look at something I was reading." she said in between snorts.  Then she went back to laughing.  I was hoping that it was something important to cause me such severe pain.  If we hadn't already had 3 kids I would be doubting my ability to make any more. 

"You could at least say sorry, damnit." I told her.  I'll admit, I was a little pissed, even though it was an accident.  Apparently she told me to "catch" and didn't get the nod from me to go ahead and throw the phone.  She just assumed I had heard her and perhaps I would have if I wasn't in a coma like state looking at the TV. 

"I did say I was sorry" she said.  I called bullshit.  "When!?"

"When you were moaning on the ground." 

Ah, fantastic.  It seems to me that any apology is not very sincere when the recipient cannot hear it in the first place through moans of agony and chortles of laughter. 

I grabbed the phone and looked at the article.  It was 10 Halloween costumes that should have never been made.  That is what caused my pain, that's the article.  At least make it something like a cat meme or a naked picture.  Then perhaps it would have been worth it. 

I gave Hossmom the remote.  I'm done today.  Tomorrow I wake up in full on battle gear.