Laundry Day

It's taken me 9 years of having children to learn that if it's on the floor, it's dirty.  Stop sniffing.

Get To The Bus!

The kids usually drag their feet every morning on our way down the driveway to catch the bus.  Today, they were motivated to move it a bit quicker when this little guy greeted them right outside our front door.

Let's Play Dress Up. Seriously...I Really Want To Play

Having two little girls means I've played my fair share of dress-up.  It's not so bad if the characters are right.

How To Vacuum

Step 1: Have Kids
Step 2: Buy Wet/Dry Vac
Step 3: Grab Beer
Step 4: Sit Down
Step 5: Watch Kids Vacuum

Repeat As Needed

Pretending: You're Doing It Wrong

It's really cool to watch your kids take an interest in something.  The boy is really in to reading right now and loves science.  The girl has taken up drawing and writing.  The baby is still just a lump of meat that I stick in front of the t.v. all day. 

But "Hooray" for the other two and their ability to overcome my poor parenting skills.  Maybe there is some value in overloading your child with t.v. in the developmental years.

While I'm glad that the older two are showing interest in non-digital, non-HD hobbies, I'm also slightly annoyed:  

Now I have to play with them. 

And, I don't play pretend well.  Between the three kids, a 30-year mortgage, and a degree I'll never use, I'm out of imagination.  I used to imagine that having kids would be a great idea.  Imagination is what landed me here.

Here.
Among the dirty urine-soaked underwear scattered on the floor.

Here.
Making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the kids' lunches every morning.

Here.
Standing on the tattered ruins of a carpet caked with ground-in Pop-Tarts.
(At least our house smells like Brown Sugar Cinnamon)

I have no imagination.  Or, at the least, I use it incorrectly.  Leah reminds me of this every time we play "Restaurant".  Her new found love of drawing has led to her carrying around a clipboard full of paper everywhere she goes. 

She likes to pretend she's a waitress and she always asks me:  "What do you want to eat?"

To which I respond, "A bacon cheeseburger."  "We don't have that."  "Okay, I'll take a steak."  "We don't have that either."  "How about some soup?"  "Sorry."

"Sorry?  You're sorry?  What kind of crap pretend restaurant is this?  I just wanted a nice fake meal in the comfort of my own home and now you're sorry?"

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Yes, I'll have some tea please."

"We don't have that."

Sanctuary For All...

Sanctuary For All.  Community For All.  Those Who Arrive Jump In Daddy's Lap. 

I sometimes daydream about the nice, quiet life I could lead at Terminus.

Who's The Old Guy?

If you want to feel old (and who doesn't?) take your kid to the park.  If following your kid around the slides and freaking out every time she climbs something intended for children twice her age doesn't make you feel ancient just stop and take a look around.  Everybody else looks like they just got their driver's license. 

In fact, I've tried telling myself that every body just got their driver's license.  Maybe all the babysitters got together and decided, "Hey, like, let's all go like, to the park today and stuff."  Yeah, well they didn't.  They're all parents and you're old.  You're the old, creepy guy at the park that's thinking about babysitters. 

Jake and the NeverLand Ponies

Yarrrr!  Everypony needs a break from work now and then:

D.B.D

There's really no reason for me to ever complain about the noise the kids make considering my musical preference:

If you want to know what winter break is like for a Stay At Home Dad, just listen to the video below, through earbuds, full-blast, on repeat.

Proctologists: Medical Mythomaniacs

I've been told by many people that my pain brings them pleasure.  If you're one of those people, first off, you're welcome and secondly, today is going to be a wonderful day for you.  I just went to the proctologist.

The Baron of Booty.
The Highness of Hiney.
The Tycoon of Tushy.

You get the point.  It's the guy that looks in your butt.

Don't trust that smile.  He's plotting.

The doctor visit starts off like any other.  I sit in a waiting room with warm, neutral colors until they call me back to the other waiting room--the one where things get serious.  The one where the nice nurse takes you back and speaks to you in a calm, smooth (almost seductive) voice and asks you about your medical history.  She then smiles at you, says the doctor will be with you shortly, and walks out.

Leaving you alone.  With only your thoughts.  Well, your thoughts and this thing sitting on the table next to you:

I don't know what this is, but I know what it's capable of.  I just did a Google Image Search for "Good God Don't Ever Let That Happen To My Butt Again" and it popped up.  #1 result. 

It's like those fun Star Trek water guns you used to have as a child, except instead of squirting water and making children laugh, it's rammed up your butt-hole and makes you cry. 

So now I'm alone in the exam room with only my thoughts and this torture device from the dark ages.  It's here that I would like to comment on the amazing capacity that the human brain has to be optimistic in the face of fear.  It may be a defect, but I'll take it.  

I tell myself:  How do I know that gun is meant for me?  Maybe they just leave it sitting out on the table until it's needed.  You know...like Kleenex or tongue depressers.  Just because there's a bottle of lube sitting next to it doesn't mean he's going use it on me right?  Right?

Before I could delude myself any further, the doctor walks in.  He introduces himself, we shake hands and I sit down.  Then some other dude walks in and he introduces him as his intern or his shadow or his cousin, I don't know who it was.  I didn't hear him because I was thinking, "Wait a second, who the hell invited this guy?  Did he leave something in here from earlier?  Oh, he's staying?  I got it.  Great."

Should we high-five and get on with it then?

The poor guy can barely look me in the eyes as we shake hands.  I take this to mean that he knows what's about to happen and he's sorry.  Very, very sorry. The doctor asks to look at my belly.  He touches and pushes and asks if it hurts.  "Not a bit doctor, is that all?" I stand up thinking that wasn't so bad.  I'll just grab my hoodie and be on my way.

Then I hear the noise.  Gears grinding.  Belts moving.  An exam table being lowered.

(le sigh)

The doctor assures me he'll be gentle, but there will be some slight discomfort.  "If it hurts, tell me and I'll stop", he said.  "Some people can't make it through the exam".

Wait. What did you just say? Some people can't make it through the exam?  What's going on here?  He tells me to take my time to undress and prepare.  Then he got very philosophical on me and talked about how humans were the only species to worry about things that "might" happen before they happen.  He actually told me to go to a "happy place" and try not to think about what was happening.  Just some "slight" discomfort.

He starts the exam (i.e., let's hide the Star Trek gun) and initiates small talk.  He asks me what I do for a living.  No doctor, how about we talk about what you do for a living?  Is your wife cool with this?  Does your family know what you do at work all day?  Because this is not cool doc, not cool at all.  How do you sleep at night?

I tell him it hurts.  I don't actually say "It hurts", but I assume the language coming out of my mouth is sign enough.

He continues.

Then I actually say "It hurts".

He continues.

He says he wants to check one more thing.  I say "It hurts".  He says just one more thing...again.  I say "It hurts."  One more thing he says.  At this point, Three Dog Night starts playing in my head.  It must be the theme song to my happy place.

It's also the most painful number.

Here's one more thing doctor: Proctologists are lying liars that lie about being gentle and stopping when you say it hurts.  When he said, "I'll stop if it hurts", he should have said, "If it hurts, LULZ, GFY."  They're also bad with numbers because the first time he said "just one more thing" he should have said, "just three more things".

The whole time this is going on he's explaining to his cousin or best friend or whatever about what he's doing and his cousin keeps asking questions.  "I'm really glad that you both are enjoying yourselves but can we hurry this up?"

After a half hour (or five minutes, whatever), he finishes up.  He tells me that the two of them will leave the room and let me get dressed and "collect" myself.  "No way Doc.  You don't get to just do that to me and then leave me be.  Let's finish this up like men."

I forget exactly what happened next, I was light-headed and felt the need to puke.  We talked about the exam, shared some laughs, and agreed to do it again in two months.  Good times.