Boo at the Zoo

My wife and I try to plan fun things for the kids to do.  We always fail.  No matter how much we think the kids will like this thing or that, it always ends in us being grumpy--either at each other or the kids--for example:  Our zoo trips.

Our zoo is awesome.  If you've never been to the St. Louis Zoo, you're missing out.  First off, it's free.  What other all-day event can you do with your kids that's free?  A picnic at the park?  No thanks, you can keep your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while I down a 1/2 pound of charbroiled meat next to the Conservation Carousel.

Your kids can ride a cow while you eat one.

Secondly, it's one of the highest-rated zoos in the country.  I don't have time to back that up with any links.  Google it.  I have stuff to type and my kids get off the bus in ten minutes.  With everything the zoo has going for it we have a miserable experience every time we go.

When we finally make it over to the zoo, the first thing we see is not the penguins or the camels or even the turtles.  It's the bland, beige, booger-bespeckled wall of the North Entrance Restroom.  In and out with speed that would make a pit crew chief proud and we're on our way.  Then five minutes later, coming out of the Penguin House, we stop at another bathroom, because our oldest daughter hasn't figured out that you can go poop and pee in the same bathroom trip.

Maybe the fish smell triggers something.

Halfway through our day (and a couple more stops at bathrooms), our son hasn't seen a single animal yet--despite the 45-minute drive to the zoo in which he discussed all the animals he was going to see.   His Aspergian obsession with maps keeps his head down and his nose buried.   While he can tell you exactly where the lions are located at on the map, to this day, I don't think he's actually ever seen one.

Drawn from his memory.

And then there's the zoo train--an awesome idea in theory, but a horrible idea when you have a double stroller, a diaper bag, a snack bag, a 6-foot 4-inch body-frame and three kids that have almost every Thomas the Train video that's ever been peddled.  I swear that some times we don't go to the zoo for the animals. We go for the train ride.

And then, at some point in the trip, the baby (yes, I know she's 3 now) breaks down.  Our first two kids never had public meltdowns or temper-tantrums.  Libby is making up for it.  We try to lay her down in the stroller, give her a sippy, and let her nap.  It doesn't work.  EVER.  The one kid in the group that actually looks at the animals, points at animals, and makes animal noises, is done for the day.  Clock her out, she's going home.  And so are we. 

Poems For Dad

I hate getting cards.  Birthday, Christmas, Father's Day, I don't care what the occasion is, don't send me one.  First of all, they're too expensive.  If you really want to spend five bucks on me, bring me a Chalupa Value Meal from Taco Bell.  Your card will be opened and checked for cash,  the text skimmed, and then the whole thing is going in the trash.  At least the Baja Chalupa and Fire Sauce will stay with me for a couple days.

And don't you dare send me a card with glitter on it.  If I wanted glitter all over me I'd hang out at my local "gentleman's" club.  (Not that I know where it is honey.) Finally, please, please do not send me some mushy card that's all touchy feely.  I'm a dude, I don't do feelings well and I definitely don't do poems.

 Music that nobody wants to hear.

If you do feel compelled to send a poem, be aware that poems for dad should either be in limerick form or standard meter.  I don't want any of that Shakespearean meter that no one can read or any of that Haiku crap.  The Japanese gave us Sudoku and Soy Sauce, they can keep their syllabiphillic poetry.  So before you send your dad a card with a nice poem, why not consider just giving him a phone call and saving your money. It's probably money he loaned you anyway.  Get a job.

A Book In The Works

My editor recently suggested that I start working on a book.  For the past few days, I've been brainstorming--trying to come up with a few good ideas.  Here's what I have so far:

Option 1:  What the Faulkner?

A story written in stream-of-consciousness format.  The story will be science-fiction and at the end you realize that all the characters were actually possessed by the same evil spirit.  So, while you thought you were reading each person's thoughts, it was really the demon all along.  James Franco will get the movie rights.

Option 2:  M. To The Night

A suspense/thriller novel written as an ode to M. Night Shyamalan.  Misdirection and mystery will keep you wondering who is really alive, what's living in the water, and who is safe from plants.  The twist-ending is that there is no twist-ending and what you thought was happening from the beginning was, in fact, what was happening.  M. Night Shyamalan will not get the movie rights.

Option 3:  The China Palindrome

The book will be one giant palindrome that can be read backwards as well as forwards.  The "front cover" will be on the back.  It's the story of a dying Kung-Fu Master told through the eyes of his last surviving student.  So far, all I have is:  "Egad!  Lo, old age!"

Option 4:  The Parenting Dad Presents:  Reasons To Have Children

I had to scratch this project, there just wasn't enough material.  It makes for a nice pamphlet though that could be handed out in airports or left in bathrooms near the condom machine.

Option 5:  Dad and Bloated

An alternate-history story on what would have happened had the Stone Temple Pilots not achieved the level of success they did.  After playing a show in a local bar to less than ten people, struggling singer Scott Weiland bumps into the barkeep (I like the word barkeep) drenching them both with alcohol and cigarette ash.  Long story short, they fall in love and he becomes a Dad to two beautiful children.  He still does a lot of heroin though.

Talking Turkey and the Ham Harangue

I just came home from a trip to the grocery store--the necessity of which is a topic of much debate in this household.  My father-in-law is visiting tonight and we need something for dinner.  "I could make an appetizer (it's a kick-ass Charleston Cheese Dip) and we could have sandwiches", I told my wife.  "Do we have good lunch meat?", she asked.

This question drives me crazy.

What does 'good' mean?  Who's definition of good?

I went grocery shopping yesterday, but apparently, the lunch meat in our fridge is not good enough for the family to dine on.  Our son can brown bag it five days a week, but when the father-in-law, who visits once a month, stops by I'm supposed to roll out the red carpet of cold cuts?  Don't get me wrong, I get along with my father-in-law, I just don't see the need to buy "good" lunch meat when we have lunch meat that's "good enough for our son to eat every day at  school" already in our fridge.

I tell her the lunch meat is fine and then she looks at me like I'm evil.

"What about bread?", she asks?  "Yes, we have bread".  "No, I mean like kaiser rolls or hoagies."

It's at this point that I feel my wife forgets the state I was in when she first met me.  I was a young bachelor (sexy, I might add) living with his best friend...and his friend's girlfriend...and another friend on occasion...and sometimes whoever might pass out on our couch--all this in a one bedroom apartment.

We didn't have money for "good" lunch meat.   Most of our paychecks went to beer.  I'm not talking about the "good" imported beer either.  I'm talking about 7-dollars for a thirty pack kind of beer.  That left us enough money to buy a couple packages of Budding lunch meat and the occasional treat--a QuickTrip sandwich.

  Because nothing helps that 23-cent can of beer go down like a 59-cent package of turkey.

Background really puts things into perspective.  I feel like I'm throwing money away buying Hillshire Farm's or Sara Lee's meat at 6-dollars a pound.  Now she wants me to go to Schnuck's and pay 10-dollars a pound for some "good" lunch meat.  It's all the same to me, but I'll do it for her.  Besides, I can pick up a six-pack of the "good" beer while I'm there.

Do We Speak A Dead Language?

Teaching your kids new things is tough.  The toughest thing to teach?  Language.  Okay, besides how to not poop in your pants, it's language.  We've had two of our three kids in speech therapy.  The third one didn't quite make it because she decided to bust out ten brand new words on the day of her evaluation.  This is what kids do to you.

Sometimes, I feel like we're not teaching the kids how to speak as much as we're teaching them how not to cuss.  Take the boy.  One of his first words was "Fag."  It's not because he's hearing homophobic rants at home, it's because the "L" sound is ridiculously hard to say.  The boy loved flags.  He had a world atlas and would just study the flags of the world.  The lack of a clearly defined "L" was never much of a problem until we took him to his first 4th of July parade.

"Dad, see those fags?  That's a huge fag.  I've never seen so many fags."  While the other parade goers stare, I say "FLAG" loudly just to make sure nobody confuses me for one of those Westboro nuts.

Of course, no cursing repertoire would be complete without the "F" word.  No, not this F word, the F word.   Both the boy and the girl have had problems with this one.  Caleb preferred to drop the F bomb in the middle of words--like Kentucky.  Change the "t" to an "f" and you have yourself a fine curse word.  Don't believe me?  Listen for yourself:


Why the school taught him a song about fast-food joints eludes me.  Now I don't feel so bad about the school cutting music. Learning value aside, it was hilarious.  Leah's F bombs weren't quite as funny, at least not at first.

I heard her sitting on the couch one day, saying f*** over and over.  I knew she had overheard me attempting a simple DIY project the day before--a project that ended with the hammer introducing itself to my fingers and my tongue introducing the niceties of the french language to the girl.

Figuring I should go explain to her why she shouldn't use that word, I headed towards the couch.  When I saw her, I let out a sigh of relief.  She was waving a fork around in the air.  "R" is another tricky letter to master.  After a few days of practice, she got it down...kind of:


Leah butchers words.  Many of them are hilarious and rather than submit to my inner grammar-nazi, I've come to enjoy them.  There is one in particular though, that needs to be corrected immediately.  It could land me in jail.  Lee is a tech kid.  She loves playing on our Nook, texting on Momma's phone, and using the computer.  The problem is she can't say computer.

It's comes out as "peter".  She's always asking to play with my peter.  It was funny the first few times, but now I'm worried she'll go to school and tell her teacher.

Teacher:  "Leah, what did you do over the weekend?"
Leah:  "I played with Daddy's peter."

I can already hear the phone call from the school.  At least I'd get some peace and quiet in jail.

Aaaand, It's Gone.

After two weeks of winter break and another week of snow days, I was ecstatic when the school bus pulled in on Monday to pick up Leah for her first day back to school.  The joy would not last long.  Three days later, "Icy Road Conditions" would cancel school.   (sigh)

A Father's Love

A father's love--in pictures:

Meanwhile....

Best Toddler Toys

The best toddler toys can't be bought in fancy stores, online, or even at Wal-Mart.  No, they're found at garage sales...

...and in your cabinets...

...and in your dresser:

Skip the upcoming shopping season and give your kids the Best Christmas Gift Ever!

Scumbag Brain

After an amazing set at last night's metal show, I was exhausted and ready to go home.  It was late and I had a long drive ahead of me.  I've found that driving over the speed limit can reduce your total drive time; often by an impressive amount.   (Try it, it's true!!!)

However, if you leave a bar around midnight, it's never a good idea to drive fast.  Not only are the cops out and watching for people speeding away from bars, but other drivers (who had business at the bar not related to playing thrash metal) are also leaving the pub.  If there was ever a time for driving the speed limit in a defensive manner, this is it.

  Sometimes the best defense is a good offense.

So I obey the rules of the road.  For a solid forty minutes, I drive 60 on the interstate and 30 in town.  I even drop down to 20 in the school zone.  I know there aren't any kids present, but I'm not taking any chances.  I've had a negative view of police ever since high school.

I grew up in a town with a graduating class of fifty some students.  There was nothing for us to do in our small town which meant there was usually plenty for the cops to do.  Everybody knew everybody--cops included.  They would find any excuse to pull you over.  I was pulled over at 2 in the morning once for driving too close to the white line.  I'm not sure that's even a thing, I mean, c'mon man, like I should drive closer to the yellow line so I'm closer to oncoming traffic.  You basically told me I was driving too safe.  Nothing new though, most people driving at 2 in the morning on a weekend probably should be pulled over.

My problem with this is that the guy knew I just got off of work.  He came through the drive-thru earlier that night and I gave him his Gordita Supreme and free Cherry Pepsi.  He still insisted on asking if I had been drinking or smoking and he wanted to search my car.  Tool.

This kind of stuff happened all the time.  And, while I don't have the same negative view of police anymore, I still get nervous and shaky when they pull me over.  Thankfully, I was driving the speed limit all the way home.  I'm tired, ready for bed, and I'm 200 yards from home.  So sleepy.  That's when I see the license plate in the other lane.

Anybody that's ever driven a car knows that as soon as that plate drives by you in the other lane, you check your rear-view.  Nothing to worry about I think.  I've been driving the speed limit, I'm almost home.  It's all good.

Then he turns around and I go Captain Picard.

Picard's reaction edited for family blog.

 Seriously, why would you turn around, I'm driving the speed limit, I'm not swerving like a drunk.  I figure he's just close to the end of the county line so he's turning around and heading back to town.  Wrong.  I pull in to my driveway and open the garage door.  That's when I see him flip on his lights and pull in right behind me.  And then, my brain goes in to scumbag mode.

It starts playing out all the possible scenarios and telling me how he's going to make them happen.  "Remember that beer you had at 8 o'clock?  I know it's 12:30 now, but I've been refusing to return your BAC to an acceptable level.  You're going to get a DUI in your driveway son.  Oh, you're nervous and need to play it cool?  How about I make your hands shake like you're trying to hide something.  I'll throw in a little voice-cracking too just to make sure it seems like you're lying.  My but this is fun.  How about I make you avoid eye contact too?  Perfect.  Should I just go ahead and start moving your arms behind your back to prepare for the cuffs?"

The officer hands my license and insurance back and says that he pulled me over for a burnt out license plate bulb.  He gives me a warning since I'm home safely and he leaves.  I walk inside, my exhaustion gone thanks to the last 5 minutes of my 60-minute drive.  I tell my brain to suck it while I slip into bed:

Thanks a ton Scumbag Brain.  It wasn't enough to belittle me in conversation earlier, now you're going to keep me awake too.

Cheetahs and Leopards and Jaguars, Oh My!!!

Kids love to ask questions.  For the longest time, they were answered easily.  We used to be able to get by with answering "Why is the sky blue?" with a simple, "It just is."  Now our son has begun questioning our answers--"But, WHY is it blue?"

I strain to remember my elementary science lessons and bumble my way through an explanation throwing around terms like "prism", "spectrum", and "dissfraction" half-heartedly, hoping to convince him I know what I'm talking about.  I later learn that "dissfraction" is not even a word and that perhaps "refraction" or "reflection" would have served the situation better.  Elementary school was a long time ago.

  Then again, maybe a made-up word like "dissfraction" is easier.

Even worse, now Caleb is beginning to ask questions that I have no idea how to answer.  The other day he asked my wife what the difference was between a jaguar, cheetah, and leopard.  Uhhh.....

It was nice when he wanted to know the difference between any of those three and a tiger.  Spots vs. stripes.  Done and done.  But, all three of those things have spots.  Can you tell which one is which?

Thankfully, we have the internet.  After an extensive, five-second Google search, my wife found that there are many differences between the three, but rather than try to explain differences between ligament structures, rosettes, and spots, it's easier to boil it down to geographical differences.  And for now, this is enough to satisfy his curiosity.

Also, I think that cheetahs look like their make-up is running from too much crying--probably upset about the lack of rosettes.  Cheetahs are a jealous, hormonal bunch.

I don't know how parents answered questions before the internet.  I guess it was easier (and safer) to tell your kids to shut up and go play outside back then.

 This worked for my parents. It's still a great parenting technique.

Recently, the boy has begun asking me questions that even the internet can't help me with.  This morning, while waiting for the bus, he asked me what the difference was between frustration, anger, and fury.

With no internet available at the end of our driveway, I was left to my own resources--never a good thing.  I made up a mad, madder, maddest hierarchy of emotion that he wasn't buying.  He then explained the differences to me:  Frustration was when you were mad but didn't feel like yelling.  Anger is when you wanted to yell but didn't and fury is when you super-magma yelled.

I'm not sure what exactly a super-magma yell sounds like and I don't think I want to know.  After getting him on the bus, I decided to google the question.  The results yielded answers from buddhist forums, psychological websites, and christian sermons.  The answers varied from anger is an illusion, to repressed feelings, to the devil made me do it--none of which are helpful to a 7-year old boy.

The internet usually has the answers to any question, but I guess it can't always make me look smart.

Torn

Sparky has been hunting a mouse for at least an hour this morning.  I use the term "hunting" loosely, because what he's doing is less like hunting and more like fishing.  He's using the catch and release system, over and over, with the same mouse.  I don't know how this little rodent hasn't died of a heart attack yet.  And, I'm torn.  And now, Natalie Imbruglia is stuck in my head.  God, how I hate mice.

I'm torn because while I'm proud of the cat for earning his keep, I also hate to see the mouse suffer.  Actually, that's not true.  My wife hates to see the mouse suffer.  I just wish he'd kill the thing and get it over with so I could pick it up and throw it in the trash.

But, I'm not going to yell at him and discourage him from doing what he was brought into this house to do.  As much as it would break my kids' hearts to hear it, Sparky wasn't brought home for their enjoyment.  He's here to kill mice.  Kill 'em dead.

I can't punish him for taking a little pleasure in his work can I?  I can tell that Rachel wants me to finish him, but this isn't Mortal Kombat and there's a code between assassins.  "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."  So, rather than grab my hammer and stop this nonsense, I'll permit Sparky his little indulgences.

My Little Tumbelina

Before you sign your kid up for a child gymnastics class, there are a few things you should know.  Sure, the girls look cute in their dance outfits and they love getting their hair done, but that all costs money.  Precious, precious money that you could otherwise be spending on bacon and Redd's Apple Ale.  Don't commit to that monthly gym fee until you've counted up the costs.

Classes:  One class runs 30 dollars a month.  The more classes you enroll your child in, the less each class costs.  So, for gymnastics and dance, we'd shell out 52 dollars.  Throw in some jazz hands and you're talking 70 bucks a month.  Sure it's a great deal, but who wants to sit through a jazz recital?

What bothers me the most about classes is that parents aren't allowed to watch.  We drop off Leah for 45-minutes and then come back.  I don't know what's going on in there each week.

 We could be shelling out all of this money for her to do nothing but somersaults each week.  Then again, it's 3/4 of an hour that my wife and I get to revert back from a zone defense to one-on-one coverage, so it's well worth it.

Dance Outfit:  While the girls look cute in their gymnastics outfits, it doesn't necessarily follow that the outfits themselves are cute.  In fact, the one we had to buy for Leah was pretty hideous.  It also cost 61 dollars and she wore it twice.  But, she was cute enough to get flowers from some guy in the audience:

The tumbling outfit that we bought her for classes looks better than this one, it only cost 20 dollars, and she wore it every week to practice from September to May.

Hair Styling:  Once you've blown money on clothes, it's time to throw more of it away on fancy hair-dos that last two or three days.  I couldn't tell you how much it costs to get hair done, because I opted for The Deb hair-do, you can't go wrong with a classic.  My wife later opted to undo my hairdo and do a new do.  That's my boo.

Rehearsal Fees:  At the end of the tumbling season (we break for summer), you get to shell out another 30 bucks for "The Big Night".  And since you have no idea what your little one has been doing in class all year, you have to pay to see what you've been paying for.  It's a brilliant business strategy and were I not a victim of its design, I would applaud it.

(Recitals:  A reason to not have kids)

Hemorrhoid Cream:  It would be awesome if you could come and watch your daughter perform her routine and then leave wouldn't it?  Yeah, well you can't.  Instead, you can sit through three hours of watching other parents' kids twirl, cart-wheel, and jazz-handing, while you wait for your daughter's 5-minute routine to come up.

Here's the breakdown:

Classes:     $30/month X 9 months = $270
Outfits:       $61 ugly routine dress + 20 beautiful practice dress = $81
Hair Do:      $45 (if you're a sucker)
Rehearsal: $30
Cream:       $3.28 (Equate brand)

Total:  $429.28

For a little over four-hundred dollars you can get 5-minutes of entertainment.  Was it worth it?

Every Penny!

Adventures in Babysitter Stealing

After an hour or so of Caleb running me ragged through his obstacle course, I was excited to see another parent coming up to the playground.  Maybe my kids would leave me the hell alone and play with somebody else.  As I watched this Mommy pushing her stroller up to the park benches, I thought, "Damn she looks young.  Too young to have a toddler."  When she turned around to get her kid out of the stroller, her T-shirt confirmed my thoughts.

"Class of 2013" it said in big, bold letters.  I started looking around, waiting to see the 16 and Pregnant film crew, but to no avail.

After talking with her for a while, I found out she was the babysitter.  Now I'm faced with a dilemma.  We've been looking for a babysitter for some time now.  Me-Maw just spent a week watching all three of our kids (and cousin Riley) while we were on vacation.  We can plan on her not wanting to watch them again anytime soon, so if the wife and I want a date-night between now and next year's vacation, we're going to need a sitter.

But here's the problem...I'm a dude.  An obvious observation, but one that becomes more prominent when I take the kids to the park and am sitting all alone on a bench while the other Moms chat it up.

As a dude, I felt it would be wrong to ask this young girl for her phone number so she could baby-sit for us.  If my daughter told me that an older man asked for her phone number, I'd have called her crazy for giving it to him.  I'd have said "baby-sitting" while my hands were in the air making quotation marks.

  I'm sure he'd love for you to come over and "babysit."

I've watched plenty of NBC's To Catch A Predator and my scraggly beard and Army cap makes me look like a fine candidate for the show.  Maybe I should have looked for that film crew.  Before Chris Hansen could pop out of a bush, I walked back to my park bench, had a drink, and contemplated where the wife and I would go for our next vacation.  It seems that will be the next time we have a date.

Flushing (The Other 'F' Word)

Why is flushing the toilet so hard?  I can understand the kids having problems with wiping, it's a tricky skill to master.  I even cut the boy a break on his bad aim, because every now and then I still miss right out of the gate.  But flushing?  It's so simple.  You're done and you flush.  That's it.

It's not like when I was a kid.  We were on well water and we had rules.  Two of them.

If it's brown, flush it down.
If it's yellow, let it mellow.

That is hard for a child.  Not only do you have to know your colors well, you have to use critical thinking skills.  Okay, let's see, that is one giant blob of brown.  Now, what do I do?  Oh yeah, flush it down!

But today, the kids just flush no matter what's laying in the toilet.  Yellow = Flush.  Brown = Flush.  Brother's Toothbrush = Flush.  Yet, amazingly, I can still walk into the kids' bathroom and find a floater two or three times a week.  Even worse, Leah likes to use the basement bathroom, which I clean about once a week.  She's the worst when it comes to not flushing.  There is nothing grosser than a week-old floater.

Unless, of course, you consider the Disgusting Diary.

Boy Scouts of America (B.S.A. B.S.)

The wife and I were away this past week and it wasn't until yesterday that I learned about the Boy Scouts of America and their decision to let openly gay scouts join their ranks.  The decision has created a spark within our local Troop and I for one am very disappointed in the decision for one reason.

I'm disappointed that a private organization gave in to political pressure from parties that have no vested interest.  What's this world coming to when a private, social-club can't decide for themselves who can or cannot join?   What's next?  Are tree-houses going to start getting pressured into allowing girls in?  That's a world I don't want to live in.

The BSA's decision doesn't bother me.  What bothers me is the response I've seen on other blogs and heard from Christian parents that are ripping their kids out of Boy Scout troops and starting their own groups.  Many parents have said that the Scouts have lost their Christian values by allowing gay scouts to join.  I was taking the my son to scouts for about seven months before I even knew it was a Christian organization.

I took the boy to an outdoor campfire meeting and the topic was about faith.  When the leader started mentioning God and Jesus I started cringing.  You never know what kind of Christian you're talking to.  Is it the God-is-Love type or the You-danced-at-a-party-and-are-going-to-Hell type?  I didn't know where he was going with his lesson and feared we had joined a cult.  After all, the meetings were always followed by punch.

That night was the first I knew of the Boys Scouts and their Christian tradition.  This is what bothers me about the reaction by some people.  If  you are going to take a Christian perspective, why wouldn't you want to allow those people you feel need God (in this case, homosexuals) into your group?  What better way to show them God's love than to invite them into your circle and interact with them.  I'm not saying you have to share the same sleeping bag, but you could at least invite them to go camping.  If they can't hear about God from your Christian Troop, then where will they?

And let's not forget who we're talking about when we say Scouts.  We're talking about young adults, kids really, under the age of 18.  These kids are just looking for a place to fit in--a sense of belonging.  And your Christian response is to push them away while teaching the "straight" scouts to do the same?  Please, by all means, start your own group.  I'm sure Westboro would be proud to sponsor your splinter cell.

Jesus was fairly inclusive.  About the only people he ever excluded were the religious leaders of his day--the same religious people who turned away whores and hated people of ethnicity unlike their own.  If you want to play the Christian card that's fine, but don't play that card while you're shunning the same people you should be loving.

You Kids Stay Off My Newsfeed!!!

I spend way too much time on Facebook.   I'd like to think I have a valid reason being that it's the only contact I have with other adults throughout the day.  It gets a little tiresome trying to decode the girl's language and conversations with the baby don't get much further than "da-da".  The truth is, rather than spend time engaging others in meaningful conversation, I spend most of my time browsing through memes and info-graphics.   There is one particular trend of photos that I'm tired of popping up in my newsfeed--horrible parents, making their kids hold signs and begging.

Most often, they come in the form of kids wanting some type of furry critter.  Observe:

What you have just witnessed are two examples of bad parenting.  Rather than just tell their children "No" you're not going to get a puppy, these parents have created a highly un-realistic goal that the kids will probably never reach.  This allows bad parents to pass the blame from themselves to Facebook users. 

It's not like the goal is even something the kids have to strive for.  I would have more respect for your parenting skills if you made the kids raise one hundred dollars doing work for the neighbors.  Or, better yet, why not have them serve one hundred hours in some type of community service setting like Meals on Wheels?  Old people love talking to little kids.

Instead, you have them begging---wanting something for nothing.  Congratulations on raising future democratic voters.  I did notice one mom that had the right idea (see picture below).  Congratulations, Mom, you're doing it right.

I understand that parents are willing to do just about anything to make their child's dream come true.  This little girl apparently wants to meet Ellen and Taylor Swift.  First off, I think it's horrible that a child looks up to any celebrity.  I love Ellen, but come on kid, wouldn't you rather meet a female Senator?

 Also, how hard could it possibly be to meet Ellen?  Stop begging and have your Mom "purchase" some tickets to a live taping.  They're free!  You won't be able to attend the show, but you can stalk her outside the studio like normal people.

You're also going to want to stop looking up to Taylor Swift now.  I don't care if you like her songs, her numerous relationships with boys are a horrible example to little girls everywhere.

And then there are the medical pleas.

If parents will go to any lengths to help their child meet an idol, they'll damn sure do anything to save their kid's life.  I understand why you'd want to get the word out about your child needing a kidney, but don't give your kid the false hope that "One Millions Likes"  could get him one.

 This poor girl's sign doesn't even make grammatical sense.

 I'm aware that you need that green mop shaved off of your head.

I hate to speak badly about medical pleas.  It's not the children's fault and their parents are doing everything they can to help their child in some way.  But let's drop the "Awareness" crap.  There isn't a single person on Facebook that isn't aware of childhood cancer.   So drop it and just write a note that says you're hoping some rich person with a big heart and an even bigger bank roll will help you out in some way.

The "One Millions Likes" memes are getting old.  I'm sorry you have a congenital heart defect, I'm sorry you haven't met your idol yet, and I'm sorry your parents are too scared to tell you kids "No, you're not getting a dog."  There's really not much else to say, especially when the Facebook user below puts it so eloquently (and explicitly) in this picture: