I Don't Know Why

Please don't take this the wrong way but I would gladly mow you over in my car.  And as you careened off my hood and your face stuck to my windshield like a bug you would not see the deranged smile of a lunatic who has gone off his meds.  Instead, you would see just a man who's eyes communicate his panic, his desperation.  You would then understand that it is nothing against you.  That you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, that you were an unseen obstacle, a complication not considered. 

You would forgive and if you ever heard my story you would do the same thing should our positions be reversed. 

At the dinner table, Hossmom says nothing, she is silent.  Her face betrays her sadness as much as she tries to hide it.  Her fingers trace the outline of her plate, her fork tilts as she passes it.  Her glass is empty as she gazes at the light that comes through it.  Complicated patterns that seem divine, that seem to match her complicated mood. 

She looks up and stares at me.  She sees a man and notices that he has the cold sweats brought on by the unknown and the yet to come.  She sees the seeds of panic behind his eyes.  She sees the concern and also the terror in his face, his sweet stupid face.  Her anger rises but she cannot yet give it voice. 

Timidly, I ask her "What is wrong?"

She hesitates, almost embarrassed by her answer but she is compelled by an unknown force to give it. 

"I thought we were having hamburgers, I want a hamburger" she says, her voice getting stronger as each word passes her lips. 

Me, the man, realizes that he may have unwittingly doomed us all.  I'm so sorry, so very sorry. 

Tonight's dinner was supposed to be hamburgers.  A Hossman original recipe flavored with steak sauce and just a hint of dill.  They are quite good.  However, at the last minute, I changed the menu that my wife was expecting and apparently craving all day.  Instead, we are having chicken kabobs, another original recipe.  Apparently, it was the wrong one. 

Hossmom seems close to tears, I am close to being out of my mind.  I have ridden the emotional roller coaster of pregnancy for nine months.  We are at the end, so very close.  I have weathered every storm and apologized more than a politician on a Appalachian trail hike.  I have leapt over landmines, I have dodged thrown dishes, I have gladly taken the blame for everything that ails the world.  And yet, it's not enough.  There is still more to do.  I can hold it together for one more week, sweet Jesus just one more week. 

A burger, I will go get her a burger.  I tell her this but it does not seem to make her feel better, it makes her even more angry.  She asks why I changed the menu, how could I be so thoughtless and cruel?  I explained that we had to cook the chicken before it went bad.  She does not hear my reply and I don't know why I say it anyway, it does not matter.  My pregnant wife wants a burger, I must obey or we are all doomed. 

I tell her it's not a problem but now she says she feels bad, the last thing I want. She says that she will just eat what I cooked but then she looks at the dog.  In her head, she thinks the dog looks sad and I know that any minute crying may start.  I can make no sense of any of this but when could a man explain the emotions of a pregnant wife?  I plead with her.  I tell her corny jokes.  Hell, I even do a goofy dance just to see if I can get one smile from her while I gather my car keys.  I have debased myself to one liners and humiliation just to stay the tsunami that I fear is about to breach my walls. 

This is why I would mow you over in my car.  You understand, it's nothing persona right?  It's just that my pregnant wife is about to murder me in my sleep.  And god help you I am the last thing that stands between you and her weird cravings.  You are expendable, I am necessary for the good of us all. 

I try not to understand any of this anymore.  I just know that if it doesn't get done then my night is in for a world of shit.  She will sit on the couch after dinner and silently plot my destruction.  She will start finding reasons to correct me.  I missed a piece of paper that's on the garage floor when I picked up, how could I be so cruel?  I didn't wipe the soles of my shoes off after coming in the house, how could I be so cruel.  I didn't dust the back of the entertainment center, the kids aren't kid enough, the dogs nails aren't painted, how could I be so cruel?  Remember that time in college, 15 years ago, how could I be so cruel?

So to avoid this I run to my car and I may have to run you over.  I get the hamburger, exactly like she wants it and I hand it to her with trembling hands.  I fear that the slightest misstep and I will accidentally hit the launch button of her nuclear moods.  She takes it quickly and has dinner.  I sit silently at the table with her awaiting the outcome.  I pray. 

"Thank you honey" she says and she smiles.  A worldwide collective sigh can be heard.  Disaster averted.  I am not hero I'm just a man who wants peace. 

Hossmom goes to bed at 8pm, she says she is tired.  She kisses me on the head, I cringe expecting her to blame me for being so very very bald.   She goes to bed. 

Later that night, I am enjoying my well earned peace.  Perhaps I am thinking about the poor guy that I had to run down.  I am watching South Park.  I admit, it's immature and childish.  It's stupid and dumb but this is what I need.  I need mindless, I need not to think.  I need to zone out and relax.  I hear Hossmom coming down stairs. 

"I can hear that stupid show."

I laugh.  I am an idiot.  I should be better at this now.  "Sorry hun, I will turn it down." 

"No!"  she says.  "Turn it off."

I don't know why she is bothered by me watching TV.  I don't know why she is bothered by the what I am watching when she is not around.  I don't know why I couldn't just put in headphones.  I don't know why she couldn't close the door.  I don't know why this seems important to her.  I don't know why me watching TV by myself has anything to do with her.  I don't know why..................       I suppose I don't need to know why, perhaps the only smart decision I have made today.

One more week.  One more week.  Just one more week.  I can keep it together for one more week.  

There Are A Lot Of Little Tricks He Knows

There are a lot of great things about expecting a child.  The joy of teaching them how cool grunge once was.  Showing them the greatness of nachos and the proper way to eat them while getting tons of cheese on your shirt.  Having someone to blame when you break something, it's easy to forgive your own children. 

But the best part of expecting a new kid is going through the mounds and mounds of medical bills.  That's the part I love.  I also love getting beaten with a spiked club and I can't wait for my first prostate exam.  That sounded way better in my head.  Now that I read it, let me assure you that I'm not into S&M at all which is a real shame.  Because if I was, nothing says torture me Madam like going through insurance paperwork. 

The new kiddo, tentatively named Bacon, is due in a little under two weeks.  Everything of course up to this point has been checkups, ultrasounds and random pokings of my wife.  Each of these very concerned professionals must get paid and to get said payment most medical professionals and hospitals find it much better to send you thousands of letters from different departments explaining that you owe someone, somewhere money.  I would gladly pay if I could just figure out who. 

These bills now have to be reconciled with our insurance coverage which brings even more fun to the pot.  I get to try and figure out if the bill was submitted, what was paid, and how much we owe.  It's like trying to find your way out of a corn maze in the dark while being chased by zombies who don't know how much the copay is to eat your brains. 

On a side note though, these bills from these many professionals gives a pretty good record of other people that have seen my wife's hooch.  Remind me to bring them to divorce court. 

This shouldn't be this hard but yet, it is.  Johnson Radiology needs to get paid.  Great.  However, it doesn't appear that they have applied our insurance yet.  It also appears that the doctor who ordered the test, Dr. Xray, is not my wife's doctor.  We find this odd.  At this point I think that Johnson Radiology is Buck Johnson, the homeless guy that I've seen at the hospital.  Let's call this a charity tax because other than that, I'm pretty sure I don't know what the hell this is. 

Which is not unusual because I don't know what most of the bills mean.  Ultrasound, ok, I know what that is.  However what I don't know is why three months ago it cost more than the one we had last week.  Is this like an airline thing?  If it is closer to the take off date, the prices go up?  What if we get there for delivery and the OR is overbooked?  Will we get bumped?  I bet that is what happened to Jesus. 

CM pokenhooch is another itemized test that is on our hospital bill.  I would like to know what that is.  Of course, the little asterisk next to it tells me to refer to section A of the appendix.  I assume they just mean a medical book somewhere because I have no appendix.  I do like that we are getting some bills from the hospital already though, it shows they are proactive.  Really I'm just getting into shape for when the big bills come, from 30 different departments within the hospital. 

Making sense of the medical bills and the related insurance appendices is like speaking Latin.  It sounds great when you say it out loud it's just that no one understands what the hell you are saying. 

I would like a menu of services please with the prices listed right next to them.  And I would like those prices to stay the same from month to month.  I would like it to be presented to me like a nice wine list at a fancy restaurant.  Yes, I'll have the 2013 C-section please and can we have a basket of bread? 

With our OB, and I'm not making this up, at least they were up front about it.  When having the financial talk with them we of course asked what we would be charged.  Let's say they told us 4 grand.  Ok, I can live with that, sounds reasonable.  Why 4 grand?  Because that is what we paid last time.  In Texas.  5 years ago.  I should be happy that inflation has maintained so well over that time period. 

As I gather all these bills around me and begin to organize them, in much the same way as you organize butterflies on a bush, it dawns on me that I know exactly how I'm being charged and why.  It's simple once you see the trick, the hook. 

See, they are reasonable charges plus some little extra on the side.
Charge them for the lice, extra for the mice, two percent for looking in the mirror twice.
Here a little slice, there a little cut, three percent for sleeping with the window shut.

When it comes to fixing prices, there are lots of tricks to know.  How it all increases, all them bits and pieces Jesus!  It's amazing how it grows. 

Boom, I just dropped some Les Mis culture on you. 

Dinner Games

On the rare occasion, I am a genius.  It's not something easy to admit to yourself when you live such a humble life.  Excuse me while I kiss my biceps, they are huge.  My forearms are like firehoses.

In my life though I have learned that when inspiration happens, especially when it's unexpected and requiring no effort on your part, you must seize it like a hooker seizes a crack pipe, with both hands and a stutter in your speech. To let such inspiration pass you by is not only morally wrong, it is a sin against the almighty Spaghetti Monster.

As a parent I find that one of my most stressful parts of the day is dinner time.  What should be nice quiet engaging conversations with loved ones has, over the last 7 years, turned into a Thunderdome of thrown food, dodged forks, floods of spilt milk and the tears to go with it.  And early on in your parental career you realize that teaching table manners is not really a month long process but one that evolves over the entire life of your children.  Eventually you may just get to a point though where you just want to eat your hamburger in peace and you could give two shits if the dog just licked it.  Yes, table manners also concerns pets as well. 

However, there does come a time where food is no longer being thrown, forks are not clanging on the floor as much and the milk remains untouched.  This is not because the little people have learned any real table manners it's just that they are at the age where they hate everything that you cook for them.  The game of dodgeball meatball eventually morphs into that's gross I don't want to eat that meatball.

This of course causes me to say in my Dad voice "eat your dinner or bunnies will die."  It's harsh but sometimes I find that through fear you can get cooperation, so sayeth Stalin.  But this does begin to wear on your soul a bit.  You don't like the inevitable fight that will come, you don't like the exasperated sighs that your 9 month pregnant wife will give you, you don't want to see the dogs eating better than you.

Tonight was going to be such a night.  Chicken and pasta, completely bland so as not to offend any one at the table that didn't take anytime to cook it.  I love most when I get upturned noses, looking at you Hossmom, when you spend a good hour and a half doing something like this.

But something changed in me, the light shown in my eyes and through years of exasperated sighs, came an idea.  An inspiration from God himself, given to this poor lost soul wandering through the wilderness that is family dinner night.

We introduced a new game.  It's called "Eat Your God Damned Dinner."  Of course, this is only a working tittle, I haven't decided what it's going to be called once it's published.  Probably something like "Daddy Is Buying a New Miter Saw."  I like that one.

It's a simple game and has simple rules, rules that I just made up on the spot as I sat down to eat my bland chicken and pasta.

It's starts with the pasta.  Each piece you eat is worth 1 point.  One glorious point.  If being an American means anything, it's that we always want points.  We crave points.  And not only do we desire the points with ever fiber of our being, we don't want anyone else to have points.  We want all the points.  No points for you.  All points from me.  Then it's quiz time.

We started simple:  What rhymes with Hat?  To answer, pick your point, eat it and if you give a correct answer (or not, it doesn't really matter once the pasta is devoured) you keep your point.  We go around the table.  Think of it as Jeopardy where food represents the points and the nice quiet conversation represents my mind.

Of course, every game needs a  daily double.  If you find that you are lagging in points, which Dad makes sure to tell everyone, you can eat a piece of chicken and then answer.  The chicken is worth 2 points, 2 glorious points which is more points than that other slob got that you want to beat.

Basically I have just turned eating dinner into a competition.  Genius.

Soon, the minions stopped caring about what the food looked liked or tasted like, they cared how much it was worth.  Do you know the possibilities this could open up??  Carrots, 3 points.  Brocilli, 3 points, lima beans, 10 points because they are so fucking disgusting.  Steak, 0 points because I don't want anyone eating my steaks.  Steaks are for Dads, not kids.

Now what is the reward, what is the prize?  Well, for starters, two kids that just woofed down a well balanced meal but we don't mention that.  Here is the best part, there is no prize!  Oh, I may make some sort of trophy in the garage out of electrical tape and a screw, but who cares.  The points are what mattes and every American is born wanting them, it's in our genes.  No one has to tell us that we want points, we just do.  When you are born, secretly in your baby's brain you are giving yourself points for the dismount while coming out of Mom and judging the bitch Russian nurse who gave you the low marks.

Now I understand that I have to keep this game interesting, that soon they will get bored with rhyming games and that's fine.   We'll just change it up a bit.  Instead of rhyming we will all try to think of names for the new baby.  The winner gets to name the new kid.  Sure, my kids want to name the new kid Bacon and if they eat squash, I just may let them do it.  After names, we'll start spelling ( sometimes Dad has to lose to), or we will say riddles.  Truth is, I don't care.  It doesn't matter, only the points do.

And eventually, when they move out of my house and get married.  They will be sitting down for a nice dinner somewhere with friends, cool post college kids with weird haircuts and even more weird ideas about the world.  They'll take a minute, trying to figure out what rhymes with "cereal" while they subconsciously award themselves 5 points for putting cooked spinach in their mouth.

And me?  Well, I'll be eating bacon and snack cakes at my very quiet and enjoyable dinner table. 

Please, Just One Game?

With an "umph" she sits down on the footstool in front of my chair.  Technically, it's called a leather chestnut ottoman of the Higgins collection, hand stitched.  All of the family has different names for it.  That's my wife's name for it.  My son's name for it is "the brown thingy that I launch myself onto your crotch".  My daughters name for it is "Where I want to play Barbies all the time." 

My name for it is "Why don't I move this thing?"

Regardless of it's name, it gets alot of play in our house and today it is supporting the aching back of my 9 month pregnant wife and my two minions who happen to be playing a "story" on it.  Imagination is a wonderful thing, especially when it takes place next to a grumpy pregnant wife and infront of a father who really just wants to watch the NFC Championship game. 

Hossmom looks at me and there is a frown on her face.  I am hoping this frown is because she has just realized that she is sitting in front of my game.  For some insane reason, I am trying to watch this live rather than to just want until they all go to bed.  Even the best of us make mistakes from time to time.

Sadly, the look on her face is not because she has realized her mistake of T.V. blocking.  This, in fact, has never crossed her mind in the 20 years that I have known her.  I've learned to accept it at this point, it's like a boulder, it's there and you just have to make due.

Now is when I realize that I have compared my very pregnant wife to a boulder and that I will probably be hit in the face tomorrow.  

I'm waiting for the conversation that comes from this look.  This usually means that we need to talk for about an hour and get to the point where I totally lose the thread of what we were talking about.  Eventually I will just nod my head and hope that I'm doing it at the right times.

But the conversation doesn't come this time.  A more astute husband may have noticed this before 5 minutes have passed.  However, I am now covering my balls from my leaping son.  You've always have to be on the look out for that guy.

Eventually I do ask my wife what is going on.  She says that she is tired.  Tired, that I can deal with.  I can do tired all day.  I've got tired wrapped up in my stock answer pile.  In fact, me and tired go way back, way way back. Tired I can handle and if I handle it quickly, perhaps I can go back to watching my game.  Although that hope starts to fade once my son decides that my bald head is the perfect place to play hot wheels.   I can't blame him though, it is a pretty magnificent melon.

So let's deal with tired.  I tell her to go take a nap.  I apologize for knocking her up.  I suggest that she go get a pedicure while getting a hymn sung to her.  Whatever it takes because it appears that someone is making a drive and they are on the 20 yard line.   The quicker she takes one of my suggestions the sooner I can get back to my game, a game that I really want to watch.  Sadly, old Hossman has had to give up some football watching time to get ready for a new baby and to parent two already delivered kids, one of which is making vroom vroom noises near my ear.

I try to lean my head to see past my wife, but it isn't working.  Because now my son thinks it's time to do headbuts.  Hey, I love a good headbut and I feel that it is a good way to bond with my son.  However just not at this particular time.

I try to pause the game, thank god for Tivo.  This is what I would normally do.  Then I would wait until 10 o'clock and everyone is asleep.  I would then get two uninterupted hours of good football watching time without noise or the Indy 500 being run behind my ears.

The pause button won't currently work and that is a shame because I"m pretty sure someone just ran in a touchdown.  My daugther is playing with her new photo fashion Barbie.  She likes playing on the entertainment center because the TV provides a good runway backdrop to her twirls.  And as luck would have it, photo fashion Barbie and my daughter do their best work right infront of my DVR reciever.  I think the extra point is good but I can't be totally sure.  Did I tell you that Photo Fashion Barbie and my daughter like to sing?  No particular song, just what they are doing at that moment.  The lyrics of their latest single "What I'm doing right now" are quiet good.  It's followed up with the chorus of "Let's go potty."

Hossmom hasn't taken the hint of my craning neck to move just yet either.  She hasn't noticed it and why should she?  Her mind has been preoccupied with the scenario of "What if my water breaks at work".  It's a legit concern.  I've seen water breaking, it's not a pretty sight.  And for those that say childbirth is beautiful, I would like to kindly disagree by asking what the fuck is wrong with you?  There is just something about seeing your wife's placenta being handled like a soccer ball that is not very appealing.  The beauty part is just that little inspection of placenta tissue is going to cost me a good 2 grand in doctors fees.  We'll call it "consultation of amniotic whatchamajig." 

It appears that the sports casters are saying what a good game it was, the keyword here being "was".  The game is over and it also appears that the car race on my head is over.  The finish was close but I believe the miraculous jump over my nose won it for the blue car. 

Soon after, Little Hoss let's me know that my new football game is starting, the AFC Championship.  Am I going to watch this one?

Nope.  I'll watch it at 10.  Besides, I do believe that Photo Fashion Barbie needs a limo and I happen to know a very reliable blue car that could fit her needs, driver included.  We'll get to it right after I put their mother down for a nap. 

I've Got No Excuse

I know that I haven't written much lately.  There is a good reason, a reason that I am reluctant to admit. 

I am afraid. 

I know, Hossman is afraid.  Something that shouldn't exist in this world of unicorns and rainbows.  But fear has found it's way in and it has taken root. Don't tell my children.

You see, I live with a pregnant woman who is in her last trimester. 

Slowly, all the other fathers nod in understanding. 

The last trimester is tough, we all get that.  You have to pee every hour, sneezing requires preparation, food looks great or horrible depending on the hour, you hurt everywhere, strange new ailments like restless leg or sciatica comes out of no where.  Super smell allows you to smell every dust mite in existence.  No room is bright enough, no room is dark enough.  And hormones, sweet lord hormones.  Like a tidal wave rolling in on that beach.

And who is on that beach?

Me.  Only me.  I grab an umbrella in Wilie Coyote style knowing that the only thing that is about to happen is a explosion sound and a dust ring that used to be me.

But what's worse than the hormones.  Any man, anywhere, mentioning hormones.  I may be sleeping on the couch by the end of this post.

Last night, and I'm not making this up, Hossmom punched me in the face.  Granted she was sleeping and claims that it was an accident.   Just like when she ate the last girl scout cookie, an accident, right. 

I know that I am the blame for all this discomfort.  I know that it was my insatiable needs that caused her to be in the "family way" again.  And I freely take the blame for all that pent up rage.  I can't unleash this on you people out in the real world, you would never survive.   You need me on that wall. 

However, I am not completely stupid.  And that means that I try to walk very carefully, choose my words with care.  I will not say such things as "Damn, you are looking preggers!"  That will cause me to lose an eye.  Instead I say "I'm sorry for everything, everywhere, every time."  I respond this way to any questions she answers, no matter what it's about.  "How about that weather?"  "I'm sorry"  

This also means that I may write a little less often the longer this pregnancy goes.  I have to be careful, very careful.  I don't know what will cause the accusation that I don't understand, could never understand, how can I even possibly stomach being a man in the first place. 

For example, I painted the stairway this week while Hossmom was gone on a business trip.  I planed to write an epic post on my daring.  The ceilings are 12 feet high and the stairway increases the danger.  It's a U shaped staircase too.  You can't even imagine the contortions I was doing with the ladder to reach the top.  At one point, I may or may not have been hanging from the light fixture with a paint brush while screaming "Victory" as my son cheered me on.  I was a daredevil, Evil himself would have paid for a ticket. 

But I can't write that.  Because if I wrote that story I would hear this "What the hell were you thinking!  You have a family you dipshit!  What would the kids do if you broke your legs and couldn't be with them because then you would get cancer and die because I checked WebMD and that's what happens because you had to paint the tough spots look at the dog the dog looks sad I'm going to cry now I love you I hate you die don't die I've gotta pee It's 8 o'clock I'm going to bed." 


I guarantee that's how that would play out.  This is my third time my friends, I know how this works. 

Last night I stayed up late to make Hossmom a snack to take to work.  An amusing little thing of basil, tomato and cheese all on a toothpick.  Eat it and go, gourmet right at your desk.  I found them in the sink this morning, scattered, toothpicks broken, dreams shattered.  I guess she doesn't like those and this is just her way of telling me. 

I have two months left, just two months.  I can make it just two months, right? 

Arbity

Clint, Tiberius, The Man With No Name.

She hates them all.

Flint, Max Power, Studly Mcwhoopass.

She hates them to.

Poncho, Dutch, Hawkins.

She won't even consider those.

Desmond, Jack, Killian.

Those won't fly.

In short, my new child may be born without a name.  It is his mother's fault.  Not good old dad, dad wanted to set him for life with a name like I Drink Your Milkshake Hoss.  Imagine signing that on your IRS forms.  There is no way that guy gets audited.  In fact, I bet he doesn't even have to pay taxes.  All because his Dad stood on that ledge and declared to the world, HERE IS MY SON, HE DRINKS YOUR MILKSHAKE!

And it could be very funny, for only a short period of time.  However, like previous pregnancies, Hossmom has lost some of her sense of humor.  Perhaps it's the constant back pain and getting up 12 times a night to pee, I'm not sure.  But she doesn't laugh at my silly quite as much as she used to.  In fact, I'm beginning to think that she may hate me and blame me for her current condition.  It's too soon to tell, but I believe she may be putting anti-freeze in my morning breakfast that she cooks. 

I'm just kidding.  Hossmom doesn't cook.  That's crazy talk.

Now some of you may be thinking, Hey Hossman is having another boy.  I'm here to tell you, I don't know.  We were supposed to find out but she changed her mind.  When?  When the doctor asked us if we wanted to know.  I said yes, she said no.  I said what?  She said shut up.  I said make me.  She said my sour cream enchiladas suck.  I cried.  Good times.

So I don't know the sex of the baby and it appears that "we" have elected to be surprised and that "we" really don't have a say in the matter.  Instead of coming up with one name now, we have to come up with two.  We have the girls name and I love it.  But for some reason, we are beyond stuck for a boys name.  Mainly because my wife gets all wishy washy on this stuff and I have the inability to consider real names, like John.

For the last three months we have been discussing this and for the last three months she has shot down everything that I have said.  For the first month, I was actually serious about it.  I threw out good names.  Nolan, Ronan, Sawyer, Liam, etc, etc, etc.  They were met with "maybe", "meh", "humphs".  1000 names met with 1000 unenthusiastic responses.  So I've gone to the fringe and now I am considering naming my kid Johnny Biceps.

I think our children know the tension that this has created in our family, they can sense it like they can sense weakness.  If you show up with one ounce of wavering confidence in this house you will soon find yourself playing a "story" with Barbie as she fights off the evil Transformers.  Oddly, Barbie rarely wins and ends up swinging at the end of a rope. 

My son has broken our stalemate and proudly proclaimed that he has a name already picked out so we should just shut our piehole.  He has decided that if he is to have a little brother, he shall be named Arbity, and the world shall rejoice.

I like it.

So that's where we stand, that is the name of my new kid and that is how we refer to him while he is in the womb enjoying my fabulous sour cream enchiladas that Hossmom can't get enough of.  But now there is a new argument between us.

Hossmom says that it should be Arpitty, with a P.  I say that my son clearly said it's Arbity, with a B and only one T.

We asked my son about it.  He said

SQUIRREL! and has refused to discuss the topic any further.

Yup, only 4 more months of this.

Don't Use The Hammer.

I didn't give my son a hammer.  We should all remember this.

I have taught my children to use hammers, of course I have, I am a good father and everyone knows that responsible hammer ownership is in the constitution some where.  So I have taught both of my minions to use a hammer and use it well.  I have taught them that things that are alive, you don't hit with a hammer.  I have taught them that you can hit things that are dead with a hammer, but it's pretty gross.  I have taught them that steel and metal deserves to be hit with a hammer.  And that, is the mistake.

My garage is, as you would expect, my sanctuary.  No one is allowed to give me "design ideas" for my garage.  No one is allowed to tell me how to "decorate" my garage.  No one is allowed to hang anything on my garage walls.  It is a place where work gets done and not a place where the pretty gets admired.  I have a whole other room for the pretty.  It's the basement and if she puts in the lotion in the basket, maybe she can come admire the garage.

I do allow my children to the garage though as I find this to be a great place to have many of the father/children important life lessons kinds of talks.  Things such as "Son, treat your mother with respect or you will one day be nailed to my wall."  The atmosphere is great for those deep learning talks that you must have with your children.  I imagine one day I will explain to my daughter about her monthly cycles in my garage, thus damaging her forever and creating an awkwardness between us that will last a lifetime.  We shall never talk about it after that moment.  But she will also know that this is where I will take "Chester", her future deadbeat boyfriend, and explain to him that if he ever hurts the apple of my eye, he will be nailed up next to my son for disrespecting his mother.

My son and I were in my garage to fix a chair, a pretty old chair.  It is/was quite beautiful.  Made out of what I think to be walnut, mortise and tenon joint work, a thatched back that has, until now, survived my minions.  Walnut is one of the toughest woods known to the every day wood worker and in theory, what you build out of it will be good for the next 100 years.  That was before the Little Hoss testing phase though so as you can imagine, it is broken.

It is broken because that is what my children do.  They break things that have stood up to 25 years of abuse.  25 years and the chair has been just fine.  1 year in my house and all of a sudden a walnut leg gets snapped off.  I am told that it was an accident.  We seem to have a lot of "accidents" in this house.  I don't need to really go into details about how they broke the chair because it's become so common place now that I figure you can just go back and read any of the other 100 posts I've done and extrapolate from there.  You will reach the same point that we are at now, we have a broken chair and my son and I are going to fix it.

In all honesty though, I do love when the minions help me fix things.  They are getting pretty good at it which should show you how much practice they get at it.  We do have a rule here, you break it you fix it.  They seem to like the rule, maybe because they get to spend quality time with dad in the garage.

I have the chair clamped up which took some work as it is an odd shape.  I had to use 5 different clamps to get it just right and get the damaged chair leg flush with the side rail.  It was being stubborn so I needed to whack it.

I grabbed my hammer.....

Then I thought no, this isn't a hammer job.  Responsible hammer ownership begins with knowing what isn't a hammer job.  I tell my son instead to grab my rubber mallet.  It's not a hammer.

The mallet won't damage the wood but it will give me the proper force to smack the leg back in. I let my son help because honestly, what kind of damage can you do with rubber mallet?  Dumb question.

I tell him to whack away.  This marks the highlight of his day.  His father has given him something heavy and destructive and permission to swing away.  This is his moment in the big leagues.  The grin on his face is tentative, like he's thinking I am messing with him.  I smile back at him and nod, yes son, swing as hard as you can.

He brings the mallet up, eyeballs his target and swings with all his little arm.  Boom, he makes good contact.  He even misses my face, which is a plus.

He hit the chair leg right where I wanted him to hit it.  It slides closer to where it needs to be.  I tell him to go nuts. And he does.  Because I am an idiot.

He swings and hits.  He swings and hits.  He swings and hits.

He is in his own little world now.  He's almost feverish.  Dad said he could swing with the mallet.  Dad is not stopping him.  Swing and hit, swing and hit.  This may be the best day of his life.

I'm enjoying watching this.  I'm enjoying his enthusiasm.  I am enjoying his smile.  I am a good father.

Without warning he turns.  He has grown bored.  He needs something new.  He finds it.  The hood of my new minivan.  He swings.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" I scream as I reach for the mallet.  If I could only reach it before it makes contact.  If only, if only, if only.  My fingers come within millimeters of the handle.  I am to late.

BOOOOOOONNNNNNNNGGGGGG!  The rubber mallet makes contact with the hood.  It bounces back.  The shock waves of air expand out toward us like I can see them.  He prepares to take another swing.

My kids destroy stuff.  It's what they do.  It does not matter what it is.  Nothing can withstand their combined might.

This is why I practice responsible rubber mallet ownership.  Well, at least I do now.