Beating a child today is much different than child beatings many years ago.
I can only speak of beatings I received from 1974-1994. Everything else is speculation and stories I have heard.
I remember the beating I received as a child. It was honestly only one. It was quick and to the point. Although my Dad was mostly a peaceful creature back in the day, when you pissed this hairy Italian off it was time to hide in the medicine cabinet or else.
My brothers, sister and I would drive my mom crazy all day. She would threaten us with the “wooden spoon” and daily phrases like “wait until your father comes home”. We all laughed.
Until one day this man actually came home. I’ll never forget that moment my dad walked into the house. He was dressed in his coffee stained white tee shirt, back-up cigarettes in both ears, construction boots covered in horse manure, black curly pubic hair protruding out off the back of his v-neck and a fake leather belt six sizes to small which would eventually become the weapon of choice to beat the piss out of us.
Back then there was no cell phones, no text messages or warnings. Our ringtone was my Dads broken down work truck with three wheels and a muffler scraping on the pavement as he pulled into the driveway.
It was beat first ask questions later.
My mother with all of her threats still did not want to see her children pummeled. It was too late. My dad took 37 1/2 minutes and smoked a pack of Viceroys trying to yank his Mustang belt off as he ate too much pasta the night before but he finally managed.
We lined up in a single file in front of our extremely out of tune broken cigarette ash stained piano and pulled our flannel plaid pajamas down and exposed our white butts and prepared for our beatings. My brother Jefferey started to cry like that “Cindy Lou Hoo” chick from Hooville as that Grinch stole her Christmas. So naturally he was beaten first. The rest of us took our licks like champs. Even my little sister was beat down like a butternut squash at Thanksgiving Dinner.
After that, we were never beat again. It was a one time deal. I like to think all the stress of my Dads current employment status of selling broken down vacuum cleaners door to door in Spring Valley, NY after clearing .87 cents per week after taxes had something to do with it. I understood.
Make no mistake. My Dad is a great man. He just had an off week and if Jefferey didn’t cry like the daughter of Mommy Dearest getting whacked with a wire hanger we probably could have talked our way out of it.
Today I have my own kids. A beating is very hard to come by. I proceed to threaten to no satisfaction.
The other day my boys were throwing chicken nuggets at each other and I said in my toughest voice ” cut the crap guys or I’m gonna spank you.” They googled the word “spank”, laughed at me and said “go ahead Dad”, spank us. Our lawyer is on standby.
They had their Instagram, Musically, Snapchat and any other social media account ready to film my ass smacking the crap out of them. Next thing you know some Hilary Clinton looking specimen with a dark blue suit and a mullet would be at my door looking to lock me up. I thought better of the situation and refrained.
As soon as Hilary left, I beat them with the only thing I could. Their cellphone. That is the confiscation of it. These two started to cry just like Jefferey did so many years ago.
And that’s how we beat our children today. Take away their precious social media. The phones, the YouTube & Facebook. Don’t get me wrong. We need to knock them around a bit to keep them honest. Just be smart about it!
I wonder if they would prefer a quick whack to the ass cheek??? Hmmm
I would love to hear how the rest of you were beat as kids and how you currently beat your children!!
I enjoy my beer and drink. I always have since the ripe age of 15. Well not so much.
I remember going to a club at 15 and drinking pitchers of “Sex on The Beach.” The next day the only sex I had on a beach was in my cast iron rusted soaking tub French kissing my Kohler elongated toilet bowl as my upper lip was glued to my floor tile bonded by stomach bile.
Over the years I learned to adapt.
Today I am a husband and father of two. I still enjoy my drink but I try and do it with responsibility.
My issue today is my wife and kids.
Some families and situations frown upon drinking and understandably so. So many people abuse this great legal privilege. We as a family celebrate.
My family of first cousins, 2nd, 3rd, 4rth, inbreds and the honorary members can throw a celebration involving alcohol for just about anything. One of our children scores a 37 on their math quiz we throw a $300 per head bash at Ciprianis on a Saturday night. One of our kids sprains an ankle we call in the Beastie Boys for the live entertainment and order 4 Budweiser trucks and 17 cases of Pinot Grigio in celebration. God for bid a real reason to celebrate rolls around. This usually results in stomachs pumped at the local hospital, multiple DWI’s and child protective services confiscating 40% of our kids. My family is the best!
Alcohol has a reverse affect on me. One sip of beer and I turn into Mother Theresa! One shot of vodka and I’m looking to start a “Go Fund Me” page for wild turkeys. It’s insane and my family takes full advantage of this weakness and kindness of mine.
When I walk into my home with a 12 pack of beer my wife and kids start “Dancing on the Ceiling” like Lionel Ritchie at the Nicole Ritchie adoption process. It’s magical.
For me, drinking a beer after work takes the edge off of the stressful day. It also loosens me up so my wife can hit me up for the weekly “deli cold cut” money and my kids can get me to agree to reduce their cell phone confiscation sentence. They have me all figured out. I’m an easy target.
My issue is this. Sometimes my liver and kidneys begin to lip sing internally “I Hate Everything About You” by Ugly Kid Joe. But I must ignore this warning and keep my family happy as I proceed to drink a case of beer and release more piss than a camel. I still to this day don’t understand the connection to camels and pissing. These fuckers are so dehydrated from carrying Arabs through the desert all day I just never understood the comparison.
I sat my family down and explained to them I am worth a lot more alive than dead so I can’t drink a case of beer every night. I mean I wish I could but….
They all respond in unison “yes you can.” I value their opinion so I do. Just kidding. It’s a case of beer every other night.
I find it amazing to see how alcohol affects different people. You have the “socially sober retarded” people who take their first sip of alcohol and morph into Oprah Winfrey. Then you see the 5ft nothing dude with a severe napoleon complex that slams a shot of Tequila and becomes “The Incredible Mini Hulk.” Let’s not forget the women who consume a glass of Chardonnay and turn into Beyoncé headlining at a strip club. Finally, and we have all been there, the people who drink a bottle of JD and hug the bowl for 3 hours as they rest their face on the cold ceramic tile floor the following morning to only swear off drinking forever and begin to pound Alabama Slammers that same day at happy hour and use their bras or tighty whiteys as hammocks before 8pm!
Alcohol is funny and affects us all in different ways. I thank god everyday for it. Prohibition must have been a bitch.
Drink up my fellow men and women. Just don’t be an idiot about it. Would love to hear some of your drinking experiences and what type of drinker you may be?
Resting Bitch Face Syndrome. “RBFS”. It’s a subject not to be taken lightly.
This topic is near and dear to me as I am married to a woman who suffers from this condition. It’s a challenge each and everyday for our family.
At first I thought nothing of this. When I met her I just thought the whole serious Joan Jett look was sexy and it actually turned me on.
As time went on I noticed she wasn’t capable of cracking a smile. I think I can be a funny guy at times so I began to question why she never laughed or showed any feelings of amusement around me.
I finally put it to the test. I figured if I book a vacation to the Bahamas and buy her a Range Rover I should experience some sort of a positive reaction. So I drained my bank account and proceeded to wrap the truck up in a bow and put the vacation voucher on the front seat as I sat impatiently waiting for her response. This chick thanked me and stared at me like Jeffery Dahmer at junior prom as she proclaimed her happiness. I was baffled.
I didn’t want to hurt her feelings as I realized this may be a serious condition. I decided to up my game.
I took her to a nice restaurant and pulled my back out as I got down on one knee and presented a diamond ring and asked her to be my wife. She had a look on her face like she just swallowed a family of tadpoles and said yes. I thought she was joking as I attempted to grab her upper lip with my butter knife and form some kind of smile reaction. Her lips had the bite force of a great white and could not be adjusted. It was that moment I realized she needed medical attention.
I wasn’t going to judge this lady. I loved her and I was going to deal with this and hopefully get her the proper help and support she needed.
Hardest part for me in all of this was watching my future bride walk down the wedding isle looking like she just inhaled Anthrax. By now I knew internally she was happy as a clam.
I prayed and prayed for her as I did three shots of holy water and wolfed down the body of Christ like Governor Christie at a Dennys “all you can eat” pancake festival.
I had the solution. Give her children. If that doesn’t make her smile then nothing will. So I got Brad Pitt on the phone to grab some sperm and we were on our way to being parents. For nine months straight my wife resembled Mommy Dearest “on the rag” and occasionally I would get a dose of her acting like that mother from “Dance Moms.”
The day had arrived. We wheeled this miserable being into the operating room pregnant with twins all hopped up on morphine and for a slight second I thought I saw a smile. Turned out to be a puddle of drool building up in the corner of her lip. Oh well.
The boys were delivered. I grabbed one of those slimy suckers and threw it at her and she looked at me and said “oh babe he’s beautiful, I’m so happy” as she looked like Heath Ledger in Batman.
I couldn’t win. Is what it is. I love her. She is my life. She gave me two beautiful boys who are capable of smiling. Thank god.
One day I set something on fire and she had a smile that resembled Patrick Ewing at the NBA finals!! There is hope!
Let me know if anybody else has a similar story or has been dealing with this condition! I’m interested in starting a support group to help deal with living with someone who suffers from “RBFS”.
I tried my hardest to avoid writing a blog post with Easter as the main topic. I wanted to take the weekend off from writing and pick it back up next week. But then the unexpected happened. My wife assembled the kids Easter baskets and asked me to participate. I declined as hockey and basketball playoffs were far more important than jelly beans. So I thought.
As a supportive husband and father I told my wife in my sexiest “Barry White” voice, “baby, call me in when the baskets are assembled and we can take a photo and make a memory sugar!” She proceed to regurgitate and filed for divorce at that very moment.
I glanced at the dining room table for a moment and thought I was looking at gift baskets custom designed for Adele at the Grammys along with a Bob Ross “pretty little tree” children’s charity event painting. I could not believe what was in front of me.
All I could do was compare these modern day Easter baskets to what I as a child experienced.
First and foremost let’s talk about the meaning of Easter. I believe, and don’t quote me on this, Easter is the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus. So what in the Whoopi Goldberg butt crack does supplying our children with plastic cancer causing baskets filled with fake grass and yellow sugar marshmallow bunnies and a hollow chocolate rabbit with eyeballs made out of chalk have to do with Easter?
Next, why do we convince our children a 6ft unemployed bunny on food stamps magically breaks into our home to leave Cadburys as we spend countless hours dying hard boiled eggs?
Im pretty sure the first thing on Jesus’s to do list was to gather a bunch of children and hunt hidden plastic eggs after he carried a 1400lb wooden cross for 8 miles and had his hands and feet nailed to it left to die. I mean that would be my first choice!
WTF does this have to do with Easter? Please tell me.
Getting back to my wife’s interpretation of the proper Easter basket etiquette, I was in complete awe of the contents in the kids baskets.
For starters, there was a gallon of Elmers glue. A freakin gallon of glue!! Behind that obvious historical religious symbol of the holiday was three “Brett Michaels” tee shirts which explains Easter like Osama Bin Laden explaining world peace. Get the hell out of here.
After sifting through the baskets I finally found a piece of Easter history and something I could relate to. A black licorice jelly bean. The definition of Easter!”
Growing up my Easter baskets were constructed of leftover Chinese food containers stuffed with last years chocolate bunnies from the local Exxon gas station and if you were lucky you got a “peep” that didn’t break your wisdom teeth as you chomped down on it.
Today these kids are getting “all inclusive” vacations to the “Atlantis” and “Starbucks” gift certificates as a result of Jesus resurrecting.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure if Jesus could come back to us riding on a dolphin in the Caribbean sun with a tall “Carmel Latte” in his nail spiked hand he would choose so and call that Easter!!!!!
I get the whole fat man stuffing himself down our fireplace as he consumes our Christmas cookies and showers us with gifts. I can make that work.
Take your bunny and those marshmallow diabetes laced peeps and shove them up April the giraffes rectum!
Happy Easter all!
Has the human race officially put animals before our own species? I ask myself and all of you this question as recent events have convinced me this may just be the case.
We all love animals. They are cute. They are cuddly. They comfort us when we are down. They love us unconditionally. They never judge our decisions. Sounds like perfect human qualities?
Animals are basically equipped with many characteristics that human beings have a hard time expressing. Not all but most. I believe this is what attracts us to the Animal Kingdom.
I must address the most recent animal & human interaction that has taken the world & internet by storm. This giraffe. I know nothing about giraffes except it has a long neck and had a lead role in the Madagascar franchise films. The giraffe acted besides Ben Stiller and was portrayed by one of the actors from “Friends”. I think. Pretty sure it wasn’t the Italian guy who hung out with the ape or the one addicted to painkillers. The other one!!
I’m sure most of you are aware of April! The pregnant giraffe who was suppose to give birth at Woodstock while Jimmy Hendrix played but her contractions are irregular and the Dad giraffe allegedly took off to find a better life in Detroit. This has left April in distress and has complicated the delivery of her child. Which is fine. Nature will decide this. Except there has been a live feed into Aprils personal home allowing the world to watch this animal walk around her pen and lick her ass for two months. Each day it’s “Today is the day. April will deliver”. Bullshit. I been watching this crap develop since this bitch got knocked up behind the Zoo’s haystack by some horny bastard 18 months ago.
I have personally taken off work for three damn months and have put my marriage in serious turmoil. I have been glued to my social media streams eating my stale white cheddar popcorn and sipping my Busch Lights waiting for the arrival of this mucus covered newborn. I have even declined an invitation to my brothers wedding as I thought I might miss this epic birth. I must now endure the challenge and face him at Easter Dinner to explain why I missed his iconic wedding day. I must convince him and his wife a 40lb slimy spotted horse spewing out of a giraffes vagina on Facebook that never actually happened was more important than their wedding day. I’m not going to Easter. There is no explanation for this.
Remember back in the day? Friday nights. You got dressed. You went to the bar or club. You had a great time. The only giraffe you saw was some ugly girl you brought home with an elongated neck covered in poison ivy. For the ladies it was a guy with a severe case of rug burn and a neck brace signed by his football team!
April is a small potato in the grand scheme of things.
Today I went to a clients home to look at a job. I rang the bell and a 325lb black bear jumped on me and buried her snout in my nuts and what I could only explain to be a cross breed between a Bulldog and Hyena pranced down the hallway wearing a diamond plated Gucci diaper slowly approached and began to eat my shoelace. It was cute but I noticed her diaper less child was sprawled out amongst the cat litter teething on a bloody cow femur! I felt the clients priorities were not in the proper order. Who am I to judge.
The icing on the cake for me was when I went to Wendy’s for lunch. A women entered the establishment with a poodle named “Fee Fee” strapped in a baby stroller swaddled in a “Cujo” fur blanket sucking on a “Pigs Ear” lolly pop listening to “Who Let The Dogs Out” digital remake on its custom designed sub-woofer as her human child of nine months crawled on the floor behind the two of them dressed in tinfoil and a coat designed from attic insulation.
I began to question.
We love our pets. Animals. Whatever. I can see how many of us put them before humans. To be honest, I don’t disagree with it on most occasions.
I’m still watching this fucking giraffe!
The warm weather is upon us and that can only mean one thing. Endless fighting over climate control in the household.
Being in a relationship always has its challenges. There is no greater obstacle in any partnership I believe than determining when is the appropriate time to turn on the air conditioning.
This debate, in my opinion has led to more divorces than “Screw My Wife.Com.”
For me personally, this argument is not much of an issue. I like to be cold. My wife likes to be cold and my kids have no choice. So when it’s time for AC there is no discussion in my home. My wife basically looks at me and says “We are putting the AC on or you will be sleeping on the futon watching The Golden Girls for a month”.
Naturally I jump up and throw the AC on like a sexually fustrated James Van Der Beek !
I am a softy. I give in.
Its the stories I hear of my sister and her husband and their epic battles of AC control that inspires me to speak about this. My sister gets hot when a light bulb is turned on. If a firefly gets to close to her she begins to sweat like Richard Simmons at a blow job seminar.
The best part of this is my brother in law. He’s a great guy. I personally love this guy. He’s one of those Grateful Dead dudes. I never understood that whole scene but when this guy comes over on Christmas morning he stares at the lights on the tree as if he is rediscovering fire. A “Very Gerry Christmas” album is always playing in this mans head. It’s amazing!
All kidding aside he’s a great dad, awesome provider for his family and an overall fantastic lad. If He has said three words in the 15 years I’ve known him it would be a lot. This bastard is so frugal his asshole redeems coupons each time he takes a crap. So naturally turning on an expensive piece of machinery like the AC unit is a tough decision for him.
The first sign of a rising sun my sis requests the AC to be turned on. The battle between these two begins. She always wins. Like all women, they always get their way. My brother in law makes every attempt to hijack the thermostat but my sister dressed in all black and sweat beads dripping from her temples gets her way. Women always do.
The problem is this. There is no Spring anymore. One week there is a blizzard. Next week it’s 83 degrees. We must learn to adapt. Times are changing. I just find it amazing how we all debate and argue over the appropriate time to turn the AC on!
My advice is this. When boobies begin to sweat and gonads start sticking together like silly putty it’s time to turn the AC on. It may only be for a day. Maybe two. It’s all about being comfortable.
In the end guys, just turn it on and keep your women happy. By denying our better halves this luxury of crisp, clean, cold air, you are now risking any and all opportunities for sexual relations with these beautiful
creatures and will only create a very uncomfortable situation for your sweaty nuts which will only stick to the inner thigh as you argue a losing battle.
Tell me about your personal AC experience!
Although my recent posts have been heartfelt and sentimental along with some wishy washy shit, make no mistake, that was just a phase as I was getting my period.
I will get personal again with my posts when I feel the time is right. Now I feel like talking about the restaurant industry. More importantly, how we are taken care of as customers.
My family and I have been hitting up restaurants since my boys were infants. My wife and I way before that. We love food and I always thought it was important to expose our children to the restaurant atmosphere and acclimate them at a very young age.
True story. My son Jake took a bite of his ravioli at the ripe age of 4 at a local restaurant and sent that shit back. He said the cheese was sour. The Spanish cook came to the table with his brass tooth and a Boston Redsox backwards hat and asked us in Spanish, “what’s the problemo Ming?” My son replied, the ravioli is sour. The chef replied, “no ming!” So I proceeded to grab this prick and shoved the rotten ravioli down his throat and he smiled and said, “yeah ming, no good.” No shit Don Juan.
That’s just the tip of the iceberg. Not only do we have to experience a bad meal, we must now have the pleasure of watching our gourmet Lydia Italian chef Paco Gonzalez shimmy on over towards the restroom as he pinches his ass crack like he is passing a kidney stone through his belly button.
Don’t get me wrong, we all must use the bathroom at times. I’m sure you are all aware of my families bathroom and gas habits by now but that’s another post.
Do me a favor, if the establishment you work at does not have a personal employee restroom, take your smelly ass outback behind the dumpster with a five gallon empty chicken wing bucket and a handful of wet naps and conduct your business. It’s simple. I don’t need to be chomping on my steak as you walk out of the restroom that is strategically located next to my table that you have selfishly occupied for 87 minutes with a shit eating grin on your face like you just gave birth to Selena. Cook my dinner and I never want to see you. Ever!
Another thing that aggravates the shit out of me is when the waiters or waitresses have an issue pronouncing the daily specials. If you decide to take the plunge and invest in the restaurant business, please hire a staff that can communicate with us. That’s all we ask. The other day the very nice waiter, and he was sweet, announced the specials. First on the special menu was Hooooomas. What the fuck is that? You mean “Humus”. Oh yes sir. Humus. Next was “greys feed Val”..haha..what? Do you mean “grass fed veal”. Oh yes sir. “Last we have a delistast sir Lon sake wit mush pititos an sitike moshbrooms an a homey glize sas”. So I just gave the fuck up at the point. I ordered a cheeseburger and called it a night.
My point is this. You are in the hospitality business. We as customers walk into your establishments willing to spend money we don’t have. The least you can do is provide us with a server who can communicate with us. Next, please, please and please again don’t ever let the cook walk into the general seating area with his 3ft white chef hat decorated in yellow Mardi Gras beads paired with his stylish orange New Balance sweatpants that has not been washed since Jesus was a baby. That shit is unattractive.
We all enjoy getting out once in a while and visiting your restaurants. Remember, If we spend $150 for chicken and rissoto and you charge us for a seltzer and a coffee, you will never see us again! 😁 Or at least me!
Tell me about your restaurant experiences and your thoughts! Would love to hear!
What the fuck is “moshbrooms?”
Do you consider your child a friend? Obviously depending on the age of your children this topic may not resinate or pertain to you at this point in your life.
I am the father of soon to be 12 year old twin boys. They are at the age I would consider allowing them to enter my exclusive ring of friendship. A sacred ring that includes me, myself and I as I have no friends except that imaginary “friend” list on social media.
I’m 42 years old. Washed up and married. Nobody likes me. Nobody wants to hang out with me. So you bet your ass when these two little shits want to be friends with me and chill I’m embracing their friendship offering faster than Mike Tyson signing up for free speech therapy.
I completely understand the whole concept of why parents sometimes say “don’t be friends with your children.” I believe you can balance friendship and parenting. That’s just my opinion. Parenting is unique and is handled differently within each family. I never judge how other parents raise their children. Unless you walk in their shoes, keep your pie hole shut.
Raising our children in this unpredictable world full of evil, temptation, uncertain chemical imbalances and many more unimaginable challenges our youth will face will naturally raise our guard as concerned parents. This occasionally blinds and prevents us from truly connecting with our children at times.
Besides the fact I am a loser Dad with my only friend being Alexa, the speaker who listens to my demands and appears to be the only “Family member” to communicate with me, I take all opportunities to connect with my boys. I enjoy “friend mode” with my guys. This mode consists of making silly YouTube videos, playing sports, doing arts and crafts and discussing various ways to scare the shit out of our their mother.
Today my wife and I were stumped. Our children learned about the reproductive system in school. We had no choice but to switch from “friend mode” to “laughing parent serious no bullshit mode” as we asked our boys what they learned on the topic. Both of my kids faces blushed up like Ronald McDonald at a Brothel.
We understood this was a new topic for them and they were finally understanding the process of how they got here on earth. So we asked them reluctantly, how did mommy and daddy create you guys? They both chuckled as ketchup laced tater tots oozed out of their nostrils and began to explain in the only uncomfortable, shy, embarrassed way young boys could. In a well organized harmonic unit that can only be described as two cats in heat about to become chicken lo mein, they replied, “Dads sperm went to moms egg and that made us.” Safe to say my kids are the next Steven Hawkins.
They both disappeared into the abyss we call the web. Most likely to Google “How did Mom & Dad create us?” and landed on some vintage porn site with two fornicating cavemen.
So naturally we crapped our pants laughing. We proceeded to ask, “what is that called?” It took about 15 minutes before we got an answer but finally our son Jake whispered under his breath, “Sex.”
In all of my twelve years as a parent I was lost for words. I am never lost for words as most of you know. I looked at my wife and whispered, “At least now they know why our bedroom door is locked on the last Sunday morning of every month for 98 seconds.” I can’t even make it through a Lionel Ritchie “Greatest Hit.” My poor wife.
It was that moment I realized I would never be friends with these boys again. Our friendship was fun while it lasted. We will meet again in the bar for a beer and some grub when you grow up and realize you will never know more than your parents. Until then our relationship will consist of phone, car and credit card confiscation, curfew time reductions, extreme home chore responsibilities and anything else your mother and I can hopefully do to raise respectable young men in an impossible world. I wish us and all of you the best of luck!
Almost time for that talk that I never had with my father and I’m not even sure if this talk even exists. With all of the knowledge available to our children today I feel like the importance and integrity of “The Talk” is gone.
My point is this. Be parents. Be friends. Be mentors. Be role models. Be heroes. Be an example. Be whatever your children need you to be. There is no definitive strategy in raising our children. Do what’s good for you and them.
I would love to hear your feedback on this topic. That is if you are lucky enough to be raising these life sucking, money draining, IPhone hoarding, Miley Cyrus tweeting, preventer of sex with my wife little bastards!!!!! 😁
Still love them with all my heart and would be lost without them!
I believe, as a parent, seeing your child sick or injured is hard on us but we must endure. You cannot prepare for it. When it happens you simply deal with it. This is life.
The last thing any of us Mom or Dads want is to witness our little ones in any sort of pain. Although at times, I would like to take my twin boys milky white smooth ass cheeks and run them through a rusty cheese grater.
As parents and guardians we put everything in our lives second to our children. If you don’t, in my opinion, you are a dead beat in my eyes. Period. You made the conscious decision to lay your wife, girlfriend or favorite farm animal down on a bed or haystack and took a responsibility in knowing that there was a chance you could become a parent or create a half man, half horse. Also known as a Centaur.
I have always heard growing up the adults before me speak of these words. “One day you will become a parent and you will understand.” They were right and unless you have been blessed to experience parenthood, you will never understand. For those who haven’t, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not for everyone. These little shits can drive you to drink massive amounts of alcohol, drain your entire life savings as your insurance policies unexpectedly lapsed and now this child needs to be fed some special milk from a rare Spider Monkey who resides in Switzerland because this colicky bastard can’t hold down whole milk from some cow in Minnesota. These things also shit 17 times per day as you must purchase every Nickelodeon channel to support this kids Dora The Explorer television habit. Don’t get me started on those damn Backyardigans.
So for the parents reading this, you should get it. For the boys and girls still French kissing behind the local ice cream parlor or playing seven minutes in heaven in the Burger King bathroom, you will understand in time. Maybe.
What was important to me before marriage and children was simple. I needed my hair frosted. My Windows on my Chevy Beretta tinted and the white windshield wipers on my Mazda B-2000 souped up pick-up truck with 257,000k miles were a must. Purchasing the entire Bum Equipment clothing line from Guess was always one of life’s main priorities. Let’s not forget the fake gold hoop earnings that caused my earlobes to become infected with blue cheese.
Obviously by now you figured out I was a Guido growing up in the 80’s into the early 90’s. A decision I regret until this day. Unfortunately I could not afford the legendary black or teal green Mustang 5.0 equipped with the vanillaroma yellow scented tree with a kicker and an Italian horn dangling from the rearview mirror.
Then I met my future wife. Well not so much met. We went to high school together so we knew each other. She really never took notice of me. During that period her tidal wave aqua net Jersey Shore over extended iron curled Chaka Kahn head bangs were to cool to associate with a pimple faced 112LB soaking wet Guido with a fake gold herringbone chain and a pair of knock off black Reeboks from Grand Union.
She would come around after a few treatments of Noxzema and a heavy
dose of Strydex. We dated for 10 years and I popped the question. I will get into our 10 years of dating in another post. There is sooooooooo much to talk about with that but this post is about the children and how they changed my life.
Within a week after marriage my wife was pregnant with twins. At this point I believed she had sex with that Jon guy from plus eight who is now stripping at Denny’s. I just went with it. It was time to grow up. Shit or get off the pot. If I had to deal with Siamese twins so be it. I was ready to be a dad. At least they would be good at math.
Ill never forget when we brought our boys home and reality had finally set in. My children’s hair resembled that of Mickey Rourke in his acting role as the wrestling character so I now knew my boys were not of Chinese decent. My suspicions started to lean towards that greasy haired fellow “Hickey From Kanicky” from Grease.
When you are in the hospital there is the assistance of the nurses and doctors. Your wife is hopped up on morphine and rotten chicken noodle soup. Life is good.
You pack your shit up and grab the kids and the struggle becomes real. You exit the hospital and the first thing I felt like doing was taking a crap on my vehicles dashboard and figure it out from there. The hospital then has the balls to charge you $1.50 for parking. Make no mistake. If you don’t pay this fee you are sleeping in the parking lot with a newborn and a hangry wife who wants to sell your hairy nuts to Hannibal Lectur.
As a man and new father you dream about those days of frosted hair tips and shaking your ass to TKA at the local club. Nope. You are going home with a baby who shits black tar and a wife who wants to murder you for doing this to her. Life is just dandy.
Fast forward 11 years as your son just rolled his ankle in Karate class. You and your wife must soak this boy in the tub as his nuts jiggle like pudding. You can’t help but laugh but try to hold it together as his leg is wrapped in a hefty garbage bag. As much as it made us sad to see him hurt, we still found the humor in it all.
My point is this. Our children overtake us. They become the reason for our existence. They are the force that drives us to every decision that we make. It’s hard to see them hurt or upset but it’s a part of life. They must experience pain to live.
At the end of the day all my boy wanted was a pair of crutches and a moon boot. He thought it was the coolest thing. When he came home he ran up the steps and down the hall like Usain Bolt robbing a Bodega. I held a piece of bacon in front of him and he became the dude from Footloose. All good!