Archive for the ‘humor’ Category
Boobs, Boys, and Bars
I was at the playground the other day. My kids were with me, it wasn’t weird. Actually, it was a bit weird because some of the moms were wearing bikinis (there is a splash area for the kids, but seriously, who wears a bikini to a playground?) and that made the awkward chasm of park conversation between moms and dads all the more daunting to cross. I chose to stand down and concentrate on the task at hand: monkey bars. My eyes were up here, big guy.
So we’re at the monkey bars, and there is some congestion at the front of the line because little Jimmy (name changed to protect his identity — plus, I can’t remember what his name was) is apparently coming to terms with his greatest fear (thus far). If he’s learned anything, and this is pure conjuncture, in his six years of periodic playground frivolity, it is that the monkey bars are a cruel and unforgiving adversary. There were tears, bribes and, eventually, fears realized. To be fair, he kind of set himself up for failure. You gotta believe, Jimmy!
I stood there with my kids and watched the war between boy and bars. Blisters may have been involved.
“You can go,” said Jimmy’s mom in our general direction.
My youngest reached for the rungs. He was smaller in stature than Jimmy, which I only mention because Jimmy, always the charmer, decided to stop crying just long enough to tell my son that he, too, would fail. You see, Jimmy, as he pointed out, is a bigger kid than my five-year-old, and as such, children smaller than him have no chance against the demons that he himself cannot face. It was a fairly impressive monologue.
Suddenly my oldest stepped forward and, I suppose to protect his brother’s pride, stretched out to that first piece of hot, yellow metal. The air was thick with Jimmy’s silence. My son went about three deep and fell to the sands below. He thought about crying, looked at the mud where Jimmy’s tears used to be, and stood up and walked back in our aforementioned general direction.
He glanced at his younger brother and gave him a look that was a fluid mix of I tried, it’s harder than it looks, and give ‘em hell. Then he glanced at Jimmy’s mom as she stood there smiling in her bikini, and I saw a different thought cross his eyes. I made a mental note to discuss it later.
My youngest, the smallest kid in our immediate area, didn’t say a word. He let his actions speak for him:
Then I had him do it again so I could film it.
“I told you I could do it,” he mumbled to no one in particular. You see, by the time the credits rolled Jimmy was gone. Vanished. Only that mental note, slowly floating on the breeze, remained. My boy didn’t care. There was a slide to conquer. He got to the bottom and he went back to the top. You know how the song goes.
It was getting late so I initiated the time-honored parenting staple known simply as the walk and talk.
“You sure were looking at that kid’s mom funny,” I said to the oldest. I braced myself for a myriad of boob-related replies.
“She looked nice,” he said. I held my breath as I suddenly realized I wasn’t ready for this.
“But,” he continued. “Her son was mean. Why did she let him act like that?”
“Oh,” I said. “I think he was just embarrassed. It happens to the best of us. I’m sure he’s a pretty nice kid.”
I started to exhale.
“And why was his mom in her underwear?”
“I don’t know,” I said as I took my boys by the hand and headed towards our now oven of a car. “I didn’t even notice.”
A Google of Questions
There are wild parrots in the canyon where we live. Apparently someone loved them enough to set them free. They fly across the sky and they sing their songs of love, crackers and the assorted works of Jimmy Buffet. The locals claim that they have been here for years. They don’t call it a comeback (see, LL Cool J).
Turns out that parrots are really, really loud.
“What do they call a group of parrots?” my son asked.
“Parrots,” I said. I was on top of my game.
“Are they a flock, or a gaggle?”
“Well,” I said. “A group of parrots is called a company.”
“What about the peacocks?” asked the younger boy. His thirst for knowledge seemingly unquenched by the bottle of water he clutched in his hand (stainless steel water bottle, save the letters).
Right. The peacocks. There are peacocks in the canyon where we live. Apparently someone loved them enough to put them in a big cage and feed them table scraps. They don’t fly anywhere, and they aren’t quiet about it.
Turns out that peacocks are also really, really loud.
“A group of peacocks is called a muster,” I answered.
“How do you know that?” one of them asked. They were both, as one would imagine, very impressed.
“It’s like this,” I told them. “Dads know stuff. It’s part of the job. We fix problems. We have answers. It’s what we do.”
I may have looked deep into the distance. I may have looked wise as all get out. I could feel the awe around me.
“Did you Google it?” asked the oldest, which seemed totally uncalled for.
“What?” I asked. I was shocked. I put my phone back in my pocket. “Of course not. I was just checking my email. I told you, dads are born with this stuff.”
The distance. The get out. The awe. My denial was lost in the clouds floating above us.
We walked along the dry creek bed behind our house, throwing rocks and watching for snakes. The soundtrack echoed from flights of fancy. Ours was good company, and the day was all we cared to muster.
**********
Photo: Enchanted Tiki Room at Walt Disney World
The Sound of One Hand Laughing
This is my best post. I’ll tell you that right now. You might smile. You might sigh. You may have to step away from your computer and touch something to make sure this is real. That something is your focal point. This post is your anchor. I am the captain of your ship and we are sailing on an ocean made from the tears of so many children. All children cry. Yours, because you don’t love them enough. Mine, because I love too much. All tears taste of salt. All tears flow to the sea.
I’m trying something new. Do you like it? If you do then please paste this on your car bumper. Page a friend. Yell it from the assorted rooftops. This is me excelling in a new direction, and the direction is up. It is like the rapture, but with more hype.
I am a giant redwood among the pines and oaks of daddy blogging. Other dads cut holes at my root, because they cannot reach my heart. They drive their cars through me. They are part of a fast-food forest. I am a seven course meal and the wine is an “h” short. Dessert is layered in metaphors. It is nearly as sweet as my words, but without the linger or the bite.
I will not rewrite this post, which makes it even better, because it is raw. It is trending.
I know things about parenting that you do not. You have told me so with your actions. Save your words for Scrabble and friends. This is sticks and stones territory. This is tough love. There is no reach around. There is no spoon.
Some of you may not get this. It may seem too deep. It may seem too powerful. If that is you, then congratulations, you just Googled directions to where love lives. There are hugs nearby.
If this post makes you angry then you are reading it wrong. If it makes you cry then you are probably Glenn Beck. Or me. Let it out. That’s how love flows. It sounds like Kenny G on a train in the distance.
There is a box and you are in it. I am on the outside, thinking of ways to help you get more traffic. It starts when I open the lid.
Are We Dancers?
I’ve already posted twice today about the same subject. I’ll just give you links instead of striking out here.
Is Your Child’s Schedule Stretching You Thin? (BabyCenter)
The Springtime of Our Youth (DadCentric)
Bonus: Ellen is Bearing Down! Go, Wildcats!
And a plea: Please do whatever it that new Networked Blogs/Facebook box in the sidebar is asking. It would be nice if my mom saw that someone else liked me. They really liked me.
In the meantime please enjoy my new favorite thing to watch on the internet that isn’t pornography:
The New Toilet Training
The sound from downstairs was a new one. It appeared that the boys were branching out. I gave it a minute to allow for screams, but after an initial pause only the strange sound started again. There was a hint of laughter. I decided that the shenanigans in the distance must be a joint affair, which, according to previous (mis)adventures, generally means less tears and more mess. I got into character, walked downstairs, and braced myself.
“What the hello kitty is going on in here?” I asked. They stopped and looked at me as if the answer was painfully obvious. The oldest slowly took his hand out of the toilet.
“I recorded that,” said the youngest. He was clutching an iPod Touch and a director’s vision. The toilet made a gurgling sound and we all turned to watch as the clear water sunk away like proof through the pudding.
“Did you put something in there?” I asked.
They looked at each other. They looked at the toilet. They looked at me.
“In where?” replied the bravest.
His eye twitched and I pounced with a more specific follow-up, “What were you doing with your hand in the toilet?”
“Getting the necklace,” he answered calmly. This, apparently, being sufficient explanation.
“What necklace?” My inquisition was ruthless.
He held up a red, plastic necklace that I had seen in one pile of clutter or another for the past several months and said, somewhat proudly, “This one.”
It was dripping water all over the bathroom floor. His shirt was wet. My mind backed up, quickly, and suddenly I was twelve years old listening to my parents’ Bill Cosby albums and the hilarious story about torpedoes and the flushing of a mink coat down the toilet. It didn’t seem nearly as funny now.
I wondered if Cosby had started with a necklace. I wondered if his parents had sewer or septic.
“Was there anything else in there — in the toilet?” I asked.
Their faces suggested that the very idea was absurd. They refused to answer on grounds that, I can only assume, were supposed to pass as principle.
“Why was the necklace in the toilet?” I asked. I was confident that we didn’t own a mink coat.
“For the movie!” said the youngest, obviously at his end with me and my ridiculous line of questioning.
I looked at them both. I looked at the toilet.
“Did you get the shot?” I asked.
“Daddy,” said the cameraman. “I don’t like shots.”
And that’s why I’m sipping one right now.
Later, after I had shared my extensive knowledge of plumbing costs in a clear, loud voice, I tried to watch the footage, but it had been mysteriously deleted. The boys claimed that the video did not do the scene justice and consisted mainly of varying degrees of bathroom tile. The air smelled of conspiracy, which, considering the situation, was a best case scenario.
I threw the necklace in the trash. Nobody reached in to get it.
________________________
Photo: thelovelyteaspoon via Etsy
RSS
Twitter
Facebook
LinkedIn
NetworkedBlogs
Flickr
YouTube
