Please Children. Stop growing up so fast!

Damn our kids seem to grow up so fast.

Where does the time go? Seems like yesterday my twin boys were addicted to “The BackYardigan” re runs as they latched on to my wife’s inflated boob like an Arab man sucking on a garden hose on a hot desert morning. I miss those days.

Time needs to slow down. Please.

Nothing seems to make me realize my boys are becoming young men more than when we go out to dinner as a family. These bastards have been weened off the kids menu. It is a drastic leap. One day these little shits are eating mac and cheese for $3.95 which includes a soda and desert. Next week they are ordering escargot, surf and turf and a vodka and tonic. I complain like all fathers do and my wife says “Stop babe. We are making memories. They are growing boys. Enjoy this time with our family.” So I pay the bill as I slam three bottles of red wine and accept it for what it is.

Memories? I can’t pay the mortgage. My car was repossessed in the restaurants parking lot. My homes water supply has been disconnected but we have 37 lbs of calamari on the table and and fancy bottle filled with tap water. Life is good.

Memories. Sure. Let’s keep building these magical moments my love.

Next reality check that my children are growing up way to fast is the use of deodorant. My boys arm pit stench could put a family of elephants to sleep. They are approaching 12 years of age but smell like “King Kong Bundy” in a spin class hosted by Richard Simmons. Before my boys realized they had some odor issues my wife and I would throw cough medicine and tic tacs at them when they woke up to try and deplete the smell. We felt gasoline would work best but we were a bit concerned about future potential health issues and possible jail time.

My boys think I’m dumb but I have picked up on something. Naturally as they grow older they are becoming more curious about life and girls. They use my wife, their mom, as target practice. They are kissing her on the lips, laying on her boobies, giving her massages, holding her hand and playing seven minutes in heaven in our coat closet. You know, all the shit I use to do with her before they arrived and fucked it all up. My wife thinks it’s cute but I know they are just using her and she will eventually come back to me. I’m waiting it out. If she only had three boobs we would all be happy!

Last is how much I actually depend on my children for shit. As they get older, I rely more and more on them for daily information. Kids are like little books of knowledge. Our own personal assistants. They retain and remember. As we get older we tend to forget things like our wives birthdays, anniversaries, turning off the stove burner while cooking, you know things of that nature. My kids, as they grow and mature have a ability to educate me and keep me in the loop. For that I love them but it’s a constant reminder they are not our babies anymore. I see the growth and maturity each and everyday.

I honestly miss the days of uncontrollable diaper rash cries for help and the true meaning of what it was like when my children actually relied on my wife and I to wipe their butts and shove cheerios down their throat.

Each passing day seems to separate that innocent child dependence as they gain a bit more life confidence and independence.

I hope each memory we make as a family is cherished and my babies never forget. Life moves fast. Ride it. Enjoy it. Embrace it. Love it. Make it your own as you only got one shot at this!

Now I’m gonna go try and make another baby.

 

 

 

Beating a child back in the day Vs today

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!!

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Is it ok to be “Friends” with your children?

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!

Children at play. Must be a Dream!

Today I relaxed at home as we honored Mr King and what he stood for. I laid frozen on my couch as my drool accumulated on my pillow and doritos were lodged in my chest hair. I was startled by a sound not heard in recent years.

It was the sound of children at play in my backyard. As I rose from my deep crusted eyeball hungover trance I was in disbelief. I looked out my unwashed cracked rear sliding door with broken window treatments and saw what I believed to be youngsters enjoying the outdoors and simply having fun.

I wasn’t sure how to handle the situation at first. I called the local fire department and they said unless a child is on fire there was nothing they could do. Next was a call to the police and they said unless one of the little bastards were committing a crime, there was nothing they could do. Next I called the director of “Children of the Corn” and asked for Malachi. He instructed me he was on his way to slice my pinky toe off and feed it to his chickens. So naturally I was spooked.

Continue reading “Children at play. Must be a Dream!”