Surviving the first day of school. Where do we go from here?

First day of school. What an emotional event this always seems to be. Different levels depending on the age of the children.

When my boys first went to pre-school I expressed a few fake tears so I could make my wife believe I gave a shit and maybe she would put out later that night. They even had a graduating ceremony as my kids were literally releasing diarrhea in their pants. They had those little head caps with tassels as my wife sobbed like they were going to fight a war in Iraq. It was nice.  Regardless, it had the both of us doing keg stands at 4pm in our kitchen followed by shots of Jameson as if we invented the four leaf clover!

It was classic. First they “graduated” then my wife pulled their pants down and shoveled 13 lbs of shit from their diapers and doused them in baby powder. House smelled like a latrine in the middle of August for months. But they were graduates!

As parents, we treat this day as a time to reflect. Absorb. Realize our babies are growing up each and every year right before our eyes. Thanks to social media, so does everybody else. It’s nice. Let’s please exclude our ugly asses from the pictures. Although I always enjoy seeing the children, there’s no need to see you. The baggy ass eyeballs with the coffee stained wife beater and a piece of French toast nestled perfectly in the corner of your cotton mouth lips we can all do without. Not attractive. Let’s stick to cute little scoliosis bound Billy with a 468 pound backpack strapped to his larynx. A herniated disc is inevitable. Thanks in advance.

My boys are entering the 7th grade. So naturally we as parents are not new to the “first day of school” jitters. Honestly, this shit is stressful but manageable. Every aspect from the bus stop to the cafeteria menu has us all discombobulated. Not so much myself. It’s more my wife. Truthfully, I thought my kids were freshman in college. I’m clueless.

My issue is this. When you are married to a Puerto Rican wife with “Resting bitch face syndrome” the school system better have their shit together. I don’t need a surprise like the standard school supply material list forgot an important item. That mistake could result in my shoulder blade being removed. I’d rather run my knee caps through a cheese grater than have my wife trample through the house in fury like she is auditioning for the “El Chapo” version of the Rockettes.

Never the less, the system fucked up again. It should be a simple material list. A few pencils. Some binders. A compass and a few erasers. We as parents comply with the list we are given. The kids come home and all of the sudden we are required to purchase Bose Headphones, Air Jordan’s, Light Bright & paint brushes signed by Bob Ross. WTF is that? Have you ever asked a woman who hasn’t smiled since Good Friday of 82′ to obtained these items after she worked all day? It’s not easy. You are better off carefully inserting your pecker into a wood chipper on Gate Night. Twice.

We do what we have to do. My wife eventually tosses the kids in the car and retrieves all items required by the school curriculum. She runs to the nearest staples and waits on a 3/4 mile line and texts me she wants coffee. She also makes me aware she is hungry. What the fuck do you want me to do babe? Whip up a quick BLT and brew a coffee and deliver it to Staples? Stop at a fucking DD’s on the way home. Get a coffee. Wolf down a slice of pizza and stop busting my balls. Jeez! The more I argue with her the worse it gets. I need to shut up and comply. It’s not worth the strike she will go on that will result in me pulling my pud like Hacksaw Jim Dugan at a 2 x 4 factory.

I act and talk all tough until my wife actually arrives home. I hear that door unlock and I hide behind the couch cushion like Rocky Dennis at a beauty contest. It’s a scary experience. If I don’t have espresso beans shooting out of my ass when she gets home along with a dry aged steak and mashed potatoes she begins to toss Hepatitis C at me like Doc Gooden at a crack den.

In my opinion, the first day of school should be a joyous event. A time of happiness. A time for us parents to send our children off into another chapter of their educational adventure. Nope. The stress level of this iconic day is nothing short of the anticipation of having the Urologist stick his 8″ girth sausage finger up your uncomfortably cold lubed butthole. Then he hands you a coarse “Quicker Picker Upper” paper towel so you can wipe off the remaining finger juice from the anus. You pull your undies up and no matter how many times you wipe there is always that drop of lube that adheres to the bottom of your nuts and just lingers as you feel extremely violated. These doctors have some gig. Wedging their finger up dirty ass cracks all day. So yeah. The comparison to the first day of school has many similarities to that event.

I just wish everything didn’t have to be so stressful. Back in the day, my parents took me to Bradlees. If we were well behaved that week they would consider a trip to Caldors. We hung around the clearance rack at all times. The children of Ethiopia wouldn’t be caught dead in the shit we wore to school. We stole a few items naturally. Purchased a few pairs of white socks with the colored stripes. A bunch of pre-owned tighty whiteys. Three pocket tees made out of lead and a leather belt that gave us Aids! I was about as hip as piece of liverwurst.

Today it’s much different. My kids have Nike kicks. Seventeen different colors. A shirt signed by “The Rock” to get to school. They do a wardrobe change after lunch. They call Uber to get them home. Then a quick google session completes their homework assignments as we as parents must complete the daily grind to keep up with the children’s luxurious lifestyles. They have no idea.

When I came home from school in my day I wouldn’t dare ask my parents for answers to my daily homework load. Just like the parents of today, they just didn’t know the answers. When my kids ask me: “What’s 4 + 4?” and I respond “8” and they say “wrong.” I begin to question my very existence. They respond “it’s 4 + 8 – 9 -90 – 67 + 347 = 8.” Like I said Einstein, “8”. If you knew the answer why did you even ask me in the first place asshats. Now I find myself arguing with a pair of hungry twelve year old “know it alls” and a wife who can’t count to ten. Don’t get me wrong, my wife is very smart but when it comes to Math she’s about as current as a payphone. When it comes to all of them being fed they morph into a sexually deprived Emiril Lagase.  Bam!

If I went fishing for knowledge and advice from my Dad growing up,  there was only two questions I could possibly ask. #1. What type of cigarettes should I begin to smoke? #2. At what age do I need to start trimming up this unwanted body hair that is growing out of my elbow and on my ankle? He could answer those questions faster than a pimple faced boy on prom night. There was never a definitive answer. We figured it out. We dealt with it. We adapted. We survived.

This is why we are in trouble in the world today.

My thought is this. I believe our generation is damaged. Almost beyond repair. The only hope will maybe be the next generation. The youth of today need to educate themselves and survive this surge of technology that has virtually eliminated “real” communication. Maybe they can adapt and co-exist peacefully and find a permanent solution to the problems we are all subjected to. If what I see daily on various social media accounts is any indication of what the future holds for our young ones, there is no future.

It whole heartedly is a sad time for all of us.  Our country and the entire world is in disarray and the uncertainty of exactly what direction we are heading in as a nation, and in life, has many of us questioning our purpose, existence, the future and ones self worth. The division. The setbacks. The misleading media. The addiction to Social Media and it’s ever so powerful grip it has over all of us. Guilty as charged. Difference is this. I lived 35 years of my life before I jumped on the social media technological wave. I learned how to communicate. Deal with life. Our children will never know what it means to truly exist as we knew it. Can’t blame them. It is what it is and I will not be the parent who holds them back. They must all grow with the times. We must sit back and let the chips fall where they may. We are entitled to our beliefs, differences and opinions. Our fate has already been determined. God help us.

I hold my breath and pray for them. I always try and teach my sons the importance of morals, value for all life form and respect. Treat others as you would like to be treated. Period. One day I can only hope they can take a piece of those lessons and apply it towards their path in life. A simple guide. A road map through mountains of doubt and unforeseen terrain.

My breath has been held. Good luck!