kids

October 25, 2013

Advantage: Children

The wife and I have two kids, putting us on the precarious cusp of being outnumbered. And since we’re already scrambling as it is, I had the vasectomy to nip that bud in the buds.

Over the past few years, I’ve learned that my kids hold an unfair advantage. They come from a place of pure helplessness and innocent ignorance. And therefore, as a relatively reasonable, rutting earthling breeder, I’m obligated to expect absolutely nothing from them. To make matters worse, I feel overwhelmingly compelled to love them and feed them and ultimately keep them from chewing on rusty nails and dying. Even rats and roaches feel this.

Oh, how I wish I still had somebody to unequivocally fawn and dote all over me. My parents, of course, used to do this. But then I had kids, giving them grandkids. And FOOM! Suddenly all those cuddles and kisses and Little Debbie Snack Cakes got instantly diverted. My wife used to mother me, too.

Kyle has the flu. Before kids.
“Aw, honey-poo. Here’s some soupy soup and a cool towel for your forehead. You just relax and watch the Bob Barker girls.”

Kyle has the flu. Since kids.
“How long are you gonna milk this? I’ll leave the dishes in the sink for when you have enough strength to stop being such a pussy.”

appendectomy0Don’t worry about me, babe. I got this.

Meanwhile, my daughter gets a cookie for flushing the toilet.

The sickest part is that since kids function primarily on instinct, they are actually pretty intuitive. More so than us pea-brained grownups. My kids have developed this basic, simple approach and now use it to slap me around.

Me:  What’re you doing?
Girl:  Hopping on one foot.
Me:  Why?
Girl:  Practicing.
Me:  Practicing for what?
Girl:  Hopping on one foot.
Me:  …
Girl:  (giggles)

It’s like she’s just toying with me. See how masterfully she can lead me to befuddled silence? I never see it coming.

“Children are smarter than any of us. Know how I know that?
I don’t know one child with a full time job and children.”
– Bill Hicks

Now, it’s not that I want to be a kid again. Far from it. I like driving my truck and being able to appreciate things like beer and broccoli and boobies.

Michael+Jackson+amor+de+Peter+PanHow do you do, fellow kids?

To be honest, I’m just jealous. I’m jealous of all those things I once enjoyed but was forced to bequeath the moment my kids were born. I miss the free time. I miss the gold stars. I miss falling on my face and having someone pick me back up. I know my wife misses that stuff, too. But now it’s our job to hand out the gold stars and peel clumsy people off the concrete.

You know, I guess if I have anything to learn from this, it’s that I need to remember to treat my wife as a child.

I need to pick her up when she’s down. I need to give her cuddles and kisses when she’s feeling alone. I need give her love and soupy soup and Little Debbie Snack Cakes. And I need to make sure that my kids see it all happen, too. They may be the center of our universe, but they must understand that they’re not the only things in the universe. Their Mommy just so happens to be a big big part of my universe – and she has been since before they were even accidentally born.

And besides, she’s got boobies. So, chalk one up for Mommy.

October 11, 2013

Childhood Sterility Advocates

As I wallow in the lag between vasectomy surgery and the big test to see if everything went according to plan, my mind has been want to wander. And of course, those meandering thoughts have drifted into doubt – second guessing whether or not this whole kick in the manhood is all worthwhile.

sad_keanuDude, like – did I take the bogus pill?

Lucky for me, I have the unwavering support of not only my smokin’ hot wife, but my two precious kiddos are looking out for me as well. It’s as if they can sense their daddy is conflicted and deeply troubled, so they swoop in to offer their adorably poignant, yet delicately subtle, nudges of reinforcement.

Like yesterday. The wife and I were in the kitchen. I was supposed to be helping her stir up some dinner, but I was lost in a spiral of sad virile uncertainty – gazing off into space. Suddenly, the 9-year-old boy pipes up.

“I don’t know what you’re cooking, but I hate it. It stinks, and it’s making me gag. I’m not eating it.”
– Turd Jones

Ah thanks, buddy. You know how to put daddy at ease. Here’s a butter knife – be a champ and go tighten up the electrical outlets.

And then there was this delightful little conversation about an hour later:

The Wife:                 Where did you put your dress?
The 6-Year-Old:     I don’t know.
The Wife:                 Then I don’t know if it’ll get washed.
The 6-Year-Old:     What if I don’t want my clothes where you want my clothes?
The Wife:                 Y’know, I’m just trying to do your laundry.
The 6-Year-Old:     I don’t care.

Masterfully done, sweet-pea. Daddy won’t forget this. Could you take this flashlight and go check the dog for worms?

They really have it down to a science. Their timing is in perfect step. Their delivery, Shakespearean. And their creative little minds produce truly surprising and remarkably varied methods of treatment. Notice how the two examples above managed to deftly co-mingle insulting obstinance with a household chore that neither the wife nor I wanted to do in the first place. It’s like telling the janitor he’s an idiot for not scrubbing the toilet with the right brush.

syringe-needle-jabbed-into-a-mandarin-sami-sarkisSo I chose this. And I feel good about it.

And then, just before bedtime, I’m assaulted with one last little perfect act of diabolical cruelty. The six-year-old crawls up onto my lap and curls herself into a warm, gushy ball of fragile affection.

“I love you, Daddy.”
– I love you too, sweetie.
“I made up a song for you, Daddy.”
– Really? That’s wonderful.
“It’s called, ‘I Love Daddy.'”

That’s when I bury my nose into the top of her head and breathe in as deeply as I can. And honest to God, there is nothing else in the world that smells anything like this. My olfactory nerves somehow delve beyond the stench of sweat and dirt and selfishness and insensitivity, and it locks-on to a faint, distant essence of unconditional love and undeniable comfort. It’s like a tractor beam of tenderness that pulls me in and washes away any sour memories lingering from the day. Eventually, we start to breathe in unison.

Her soft, raspy voice lets out a small hum as she begins to sing.

Turns out it’s a song about daddy’s farts.

September 23, 2013

Talking to your kids about your balls.

As I recover from my vasectomy, an interesting dilemma has unzipped and presented itself. The kids want to know why Daddy can’t wrastle. The kids want to know why they can’t sit on Daddy’s lap. The kids want to know why Daddy is walking so funny.

Ministry_of_Silly_Walks_by_chaplin007Anti-Baby Steps

My daughter is six and my son is nine. The younger one has been easy. As soon as I said the word, ‘testicles’ she started giggling and quickly moved on. Although, now she feels she has license to say, ‘testicles’ whenever she wants. So, she does. And then giggles.

“You want a hug, Daddy? Don’t worry, I won’t hurt your testicles.”
“Be nice to Daddy. He’s got sore testicles.”
“Good morning, Daddy. How are the testicles?”
“Hey, Daddy. Testicles. I just said, ‘testicles.'”

The nine year old boy is a little different. You see, he has testicles. And questions.

“Was there something wrong with your testicles?”
– No.
“Then what was the testicle surgery for?”
– Don’t end your sentence with a preposition, son.

So, how do I tell the kids that I love them more than anything in the world, but there’s no way in hell I would ever want another one of those loud, obnoxious, expensive, dirty, stupid little angels?

“Daddy, why don’t you and Mommy want another baby?”

A. You kids are relentless. You wear me out. You’re lucky I haven’t gotten rid of you already.
B. I love you so, so very much that I don’t want to share that love with anyone else. Except the dogs.
C. Do you really want to share the t.v. with another person? Gimme the remote.
D. Well, if we did have another one, then either you or your sister would have to go.

“But Daddy, only mommies have babies. What do your testicles have to do with it?

A. It’s called sex, boy. Duh.
B. You see, it takes two to Tango. And when you Tango naked, you make babies.
C. Well there’s this thing called puberty – that’s when you get hairy armpits. And when you get hairy armpits, you make babies.
D. Really, son? I don’t think you’ve been using the internet correctly.

“So you would rather have somebody cut into your testicles than have another one of me?”

A. Y’see. It’s not so hard to understand.
B. Well you don’t have to put it that way. They really only cut the scrotum and the vas deferens. Not the actual testicles.
C. It’s not like that. The third one wouldn’t be another you. That would be even worse.
D. No, no – of course not. There’s just no way the next one could be as amazing as you are. You’ve got a booger in your hair.

So, the conversation wasn’t that bad. And I think my kids will be better off for it. And now, I can focus my energy on helping them be the best they can be. And that makes me feel good.

funny-science-fair-131My kids are gonna be geniuses.

In the end, I gave him a quick run-down of some puberty basics. It’s the part of life when you get smelly and covered in zits. And then you want girls to like you. We talked about how there’s a difference between being a kid and being a grownup. And that it’s more than just a driver’s license and a beard. But, when it came to the actual procreating and consummating and gettin’ it on with a little bump ‘n grind-ating, I told him that nine years old was simply too young and innocent for that sorta conversation. He sighed, nodded and said that he understood.

Then we played the new Grand Theft Auto.

 

…

[If you’re interested, the entire snipping story starts here.]

September 10, 2013

Who am I kidding?

While we’re waiting for my appointment with Dr. Featherhands, let’s dive a bit deeper into some of my reasoning for getting a vasectomy in the first place. I mean, it’s not like I just have a hankerin’ for pain in my patriarchal pouch.

First of all – I’ve got two kids already – one boy, one girl. The wife and I have successfully reproduced ourselves to carry on our genes and namesakes. And ultimately, we’ve created a couple of slaves to take care of us, once we’re breaking our hips and peeing ourselves.

$$ Financials $$
Yep, kids are expensive. Hey look, a chart!

Screen Shot 2013-09-09 at 1.49.09 PMAnd then they go to college.

It takes a village to rob a bank and raise a child. You see, on top of that spooky graphic, there are a few more teensy weensy costs we would need to endure. A new house. Our rooms are already filled with love and people and toilets. A new car. The truck has maximized its load. And all that ridiculously priced baby equipment like car seats and strollers and cribs and Tickle-Me-Elmos and crap – we already gave all that away. We’d have to completely start over.


Health – Our Bodies Ourselves
At my wife’s current undisclosed beautifully sexy age, her body will not think pregnancy is very awesome anymore. It adds weight and strain. It steals nutrients and rearranges all the hormones. Here are some stats:

PRESENT PREGNANCY PITFALLS
1/3 chance of miscarriage
1/66 chance of chromosomal abnormality
1/106 chance of Down Syndrome
1/10 chance of birth weight lower than 5.5 lbs.
1/3 chance of kid growing up to be a neglected, pansy crybaby


Sanity – It’s Crucial
Oh yeah. And I’m not interested in anything like this:

family-largeThe vagina is not a clown car.

I do not want my life to be incessantly surrounded by loud, banging, clanging chaos. I don’t want there to always be a mess to clean up. I don’t want there to always be an argument to break up. Or a booboo to kiss. Or a snotty nose to wipe. Or a turdy ass to scrub. I want to get old with some peace and quiet and serenity. If I spent 20 more years yelling and griping it would become some sort of ingrained habit. Then I’d end up a grumpy old fart. And nobody likes that guy.

Now, as if health and sanity and money weren’t reason enough to make the snip – there’s another reason. There’s a much more yummy and sweaty and gropey reason. But that deserves its own post.

Hump Day should work.