Everyone Who’s Anyone Poops

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If you aren’t familiar with the classic literature entitled, “Everyone Poops“, then you, good friend, are clearly not cultured.

I first discovered this book in my very early twenties, when my mother found a copy of it at a thrift store and figured it would be something I’d get a kick out of.  She was right.  This was before stupid cartoons like Family Guy made a big deal about the book.  It wasn’t quite a pop culture phenomenon yet.  Still, it was easily the greatest book I had ever seen.

It was all about poop!

Now, I understand that this book is intended to help with potty training. I don’t really see the use.  There are better potty training books out there.

Grayson, my little boy, is one the verge of a serious potty training regimen.  It’s coming, and when it does, it’ll probably feel like a Rocky training montage.  I hope that by the end of it, when he’s a potty master he’ll look at the other kids his age at daycare and ask, “Do you even poop, bro?”

Everyone Poops isn’t really a training manual, or even much of a guide.  It doesn’t go into many details about how you know it’s time to poop. Nothing about having accidents either, and the shame you should feel when you diarrhea yourself on the playground in front of the cutest girl in school.  So much for your public school crush.  Or college, if the scenario applies to you.

It is, at it’s core, just a bunch of pages of drawings of people and animals taking turns taking a shit.  I love it.  It’s fucking brilliant in it’s simplicity. But it’s not much of a guide.

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I’d like to believe that he’s not kidding.  It makes for better tourism.

A couple weeks ago, my son filled his diaper up and before I had a chance to notice he had pooped (usually the smell gives it away, for those of you without kids… why are you reading this blog again?…) he decided to show me.  Yeah, he full-on reached into the back of his pants, and scooped out some messy shit to display in the palm of his hand.

That’s my boy, I thought to myself.

I paused for a moment before grabbing a cloth because I was curious if he’d throw the poo at me like a monkey does.  Then common sense kicked in because A) He’s not a monkey, and B) if I waited too long I might be covered in toddler shit. Time was of the essence, and that essence had an awful aroma.

I was also worried he might try to eat it.  He ate kitten poop once.  True story.  If you ask him, he might deny it but who would admit to that? And he’s only two, and probably doesn’t remember doing it. Still, if I ate cat shit, I’d probably remember that forever. He’s likely just blocked it from his memory.  Wow, for only two years old my son has some serious zen-like super powers.

Anyway, back to the book.

Everyone Poops is one of the greatest books ever written, but what someone really needs to write are instructions on when to poop, how much toilet paper is appropriate to use (ladies, I’m looking at you here), and how to properly install a new roll of toilet paper so that it hangs over the front. Oh, and somewhere in there should be a basic one-liner about not eating poop.

“If one feels the inclination to taste or otherwise orally ingest some poop, then they should reconsider this action as it would be detrimental to their health, as well as their current state of breath; and, as such, they would be ridiculed by their peers.”

That should do it. Read it with a British accent.  If you live in Britain, read it normally.

And that’s that.  Everyone poops. And that’s what I’m going to do right now.  You’re welcome.  I know you wanted to know that.

-Ryan

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My son is clearly mesmerized by what he’s learned.

Calling Out Caillou

Yeah, you heard right…

Caillou needs a serious punch in the goddam face.

I know what you’re thinking – somebody’s been drinking.  But don’t act like you don’t want to clench your fist right up and throw it in Caillou’s general direction.  Right in his stupid face.

Never seen Caillou? Oh, you must not have kids.  Let me sum up the show for you:

There’s this kid named Caillou and he has no hair and nobody really knows why and his parents are total douchebags even though his mom is kinda attractive in that don’t-know-why-kind-of-way and they let him do whatever he wants and any time they try to discipline him he just tantrums the fuck out of your tv screen until he gets what he wants and it sets a bad example for our kids watching it because not only do they think it’s cool to do that but they wonder if all the single dads are looking at their moms the way we’re kinda sorta looking at Caillou’s mom.

Run on sentences rule.

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Okay, maybe this is a little extreme… but not really.

I’d like to have an old fashioned fist fight with Caillou.  Not to the death, or anything like that.  The kind of fight that just lets him know we’re all sick and tired of his shit. When it’s all said and done, I’d like to think we could shake hands and walk away.  Not as friends, but with an understanding that someone was a piece of shit human being and needed a punch in the nose.

And maybe that little bald boy will grow up to become a fine citizen.

Wouldn’t you like to punch Caillou right in the mouth?

-Ryan

 

She Can’t Beat Me

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She can’t beat me.  Not yet, anyway.

I’m talking about the games I play with my daughter.  Video games, board games, a running race in the park, who can stand on one foot the longest… even a simple game of fucking marbles.

I know she’s only six.  But I’m not about to let her have a victory over her old man just because there’s a thirty-one year age difference. What would my friends say if they’d found I’d lost on the Rainbow Road of Mario Kart to a little girl?

Ha ha. You lost on the Rainbow Road of Mario Kart to a little girl.

That’s what they’d say.

And I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.  So you know what? I don’t let her win.

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She can’t score a goal on me either…

She has this game called “Spuzzle“.  The first person to complete their little mini puzzles of Disney princesses is the winner.  But look out for the fat sea witch! That crazy bitch has got it out for me.  Somebody needs to ram a fucking mast right through her, or some shit.  Anyway, when I win at Spuzzle (which is about 70-80% of the time because I’m really skillful at this stupid fucking game) I like to throw a little victory parade.  Most of the time it doesn’t even involve me standing up, but you best believe I wave my hands in the air like I just don’t care that I don’t let my kids beat me at games.

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…and she couldn’t beat me at Turtles In Time…

And just what would it teach her to let her win all the time?  Would she feel like a winner?  Maybe.  Until she learned the horrible truth about her victory.  Remember what we all learned from Obi-Wan growing up: Truth is all about perspective and points of view.  Just imagine you’re a little kid again.  You finally beat your dad at something he’s really good at.  It could be video games, Scrabble, soccer, or going shot for shot with a bottle of Crown Royal.  And you beat him at it.  Nay, you destroy him at it.  You finally showed that old, balding fuck who the greatest of all time really is.  You’re on top of the world.  You feel like you’re finally somebody.

But it wasn’t real.  It wasn’t true. And so you grow up, wanting to ensure that you feel like a winner again because it was so wonderful.  You start supporting ridiculous fucking notions like particpation medals, and not keeping score.  Because it just feels good.

You poor fuck.

So I don’t let my daughter beat me at games.

You might think this is all about bragging, but to be fair – Ryleigh has bested me a few times at games.  The first time she played Wrestlefest with me at Barcadia, she totally demolished me in the Royal Rumble.  I must have been having an off day or something, because I’m awesome at that game.  Now that I think about it, though, she insisted on using Ultimate Warrior, and that’s who I usually use to win too.  Hmmm….

Either way, she won fair n’ square.  I wasn’t about to let her win.

– Ryan

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…and there’s no way she beat me at Double Dragon.

Playing Favorites

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If you have kids you’ll understand what I’m talking about today.  If you don’t have kids, probably not.  If you only have one child, you should get hanky-pankying more frequently without protection because you’re not a real parent until you have two.

If you DO have more than one child, then one of them is your favorite.

Now wait, I’m not asking you which one is the one you like the best.  And I’m not suggesting you don’t love all your children.  The only thing for certain is that you like one better than the others, and if you have three kids, then likely the middle child isn’t the winner.  Sorry, middle child.  Maybe your parents will get you a goddam participation trophy or something.

You see, here’s where I call bullshit on parents.  We all know someone (likely lots of moms n’ dads) who say, “I love all my children equally.”  And that’s sweet.  Bullshit, but sweet.  It’s just a way we can keep all our kids happy and productive.

Surely you were a kid once.  I know I was.  I can remember sitting with my mommy and asking her who she loved more, me or my sister.  She would always insist that she loved us both the same.  But I was smarter than that.  So I pressed and pressed until she finally gave in and declared me the victor in her motherly praise.  I’m sure she did that just to shut me up after an hour of pestering her with nonsense.

I guess some kids just need to feel like they’re numero freaking uno.

If we were smarter parents, we’d totally use this to our advantage.  Maybe make our lives a little easier in the process.  Instead of telling a bratty child that we love all our children the same, tell your daughter that while she may be the cat’s meow it pales in comparison to all the dishes her older sister washes every night.  I bet your fucking floors will start to have a certain shine to them more regularly with all the work she’ll be putting into them.

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If you pick the wrong fave, just fly around the world backwards and choose again!

Or… “Son, you know I love both you and your brother, but I have only two tickets to Wrestlemania, and your brother’s been doing a mighty fine job of making sure I have a fresh cup of coffee to wake up to each morning.  I wonder who I’ll bring as my guest.”

Now, I wouldn’t take this too far.  Kids aren’t fucking stupid.  And certainly don’t tell your child, “it doesn’t matter which one of you I love more, because I love my bottle cap collection the best.”  Some of those rugrats just don’t fucking understand a good sense of humor.  The last thing you want to do is make them cry.  Cause then you can’t hear the game.

Just remember that if you’re going to play up your love for or against one of your children, you need to keep in mind what they are and aren’t capable of.  Maybe you need the car washed this weekend.  Are you going to leave that chore in the hands of your four year old?  They might even be your favorite child, but they’re going to fuck up your car somehow.  Just keep it realistic and attainable.

So you must be inevitably wondering which of my two children are my favorite.  Yeah, like I’m about to post that here.  Once something’s on the internet, it never fucking goes away.  They may not be able to fully read yet, but someday they’ll be surfing the information super-highway (yeah, I just said that…fuck you) and I’ll have a lot of shit to explain as it is.

And besides, I’ll probably change my mind about my decision in a month or two anyway.

– Ryan

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Surprise!  The cat is actually my favorite one of all!

Bubble Guppie$$$$$$

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What time is it?  It’s time for lunch!  AND LUNCH IS GOING TO COST YOU EVERY GODDAM CENT IN YOUR POCKET.

Let me start by saying I friggin’ love the Bubble Guppies.  They came out right when my daughter Ryleigh was born and she’s been a fan of the show for as long as she’s been a Boston Bruins fan.  Smart kid.

In fact, the Bubble Guppies’ “Restaurant Song” might be my favorite song of the last ten years.  That’s not Dad Bullshit either.  I sing that little number in the shower sometimes.  Sing it with me now, “I wanna eat a…”

Or don’t.  Fine.  Maybe you don’t know the words.

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Who’s kid’s head is this big????

I recently won tickets to see Bubble Guppies Live.  I was ecstatic because:

  1. I friggin’ love the Bubble Guppies
  2. I never win anything
  3. Those tickets would have been expensive
  4. …like, not quite Rolling Stones expensive, but more like NKOTB reunion tour expensive.

My first dilemma was which child should I take.  I won two tickets, and I couldn’t very well send them both to the concert by themselves.  And really, I wanted to go.  I decided that even though Ryleigh had seen the Guppies live last year on this same “We Totally Rock” Tour that I’d take her. I missed them last time they came to town, so I wanted to go with her.

Now, let me just say that I’ve seen all the greats live.  Aerosmith.  Andrew WK. Alice Cooper. Keteela. The Bubble Guppies held their own with all of them. But we’re not here today to talk about the show.  No, we’re here to talk about how they see us parents coming and fish us for all the money we have.

Now, I realize I can’t complain too much considering I won my tickets.  They didn’t cost me a thing.  I’m very fortunate for that.  Honestly, I think the show was worth the $60 per ticket that everyone else paid, and I would have gladly paid it.  But between the front doors and the stage was something else entirely.

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The Bubble Guppies merchandise table.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck me.

“Look daddy!  They have Bubble Puppy stuffies!  Can I get a Bubble Guppies shirt?  Can I get the stickers?  I reaaaaallllllllyyyyyyy want a Bubble Puppy stuffy!”

Just thinking back to that moment makes me twitch a little.  You know, sometimes you just want to spoil these little creatures of ours but you know you can’t.  You can’t give in.  Even though you know your daughter is a 98% perfect little angel who never does wrong and you just wanna give them everything their heart desires.  So I looked at the prices.

  • Stuffed characters: $30
  • T-shirts: $35
  • Stickers: $5
  • Lunch Bag: $20

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck me. By the end of the concert, Molly and Una could be divvying up shares of my soul.

I took a deep breath and explained to Ryleigh that those stuffies can be bought at Toys R Us for ten bucks, the t-shirts sell at Walmart for $7.99, the stickers can be bought at the dollar store, and she already ate lunch that day and didn’t need a new lunch bag.

“But I’d really like a Bubble Puppy stuffy,” she said.

“Honey,” I said calmly and reassuringly. “No. We can get two of those at the toy store for the cost of one here.”

“So next time we go to Toys R Us I can get two Bubble Guppies stuffies?”

…don’t you just hate when your kids take your own words and rearrange them to suit their own needs?  My only solution now is to avoid Toys R Us like the plague, but really, I love shopping there too.

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So we didn’t buy any of the overpriced merchandise and elected to purchase overpriced popcorn instead.  Because, well, fuck it I don’t even know.

During the show, all these other kids had light up foam batons that they were shaking around.  I think they were shaking them to try and give all the grandparents seizures.  Well, my lovely daughter caught a glimpse of this fun and started asking me for one.

This is where I buckled a little.  The tickets were free, so I suppose I could get her one of these little souvenirs.  I told her at intermission we’d go get one if they weren’t too expensive.

So we walk up to the merch table, which is being run by one of the roadies from Motley Crue, and I ask how much the foam batons are.  He informs me that this piece of shit is going to cost me fifteen bucks.  “I’ll take one,” I say, smiling because I’m about to make my daughter the happiest girl in the world for the next thirty minutes or so until, like all children, she’s moved on to the next expendable item in her sights.

Now, the Motley Crue roadie turns to get me a foam baton.  Beside me at the merch table is the #1 Greatest Grandmother of All-Time with her two brats.  And she drops nearly a hundred bucks on shirts and stuffies and batons for these kids like she rolls with Kanye.  I’m holding up fifteen bucks in exact change, waiting for a foam baton.  The Motley Crue roadie turns back around with the foam baton.  He looks at me, then at Super-Granny, then back at me as he holds the baton toward me.  “And that’s everything?”20170326_133757

This mother fucker was trying to shame me into spending more money on my child!  I’m clearly the worst father on the planet because I wouldn’t max out my Visa limit for poorly made shit that would get stuffed into the bottom of a toy box and never seen again until my 2018 yard sale happens.

“That’s all, thank you.”

As I handed Ryleigh the foam baton, and saw the huge grin on her face, and how happy it made her, I thought to myself, Fuck it.  Fuck the Motley Crue roadie and his shaming. Look at how happy my little darling is.  And Ryleigh hugged me and I realized that none of it mattered.  I’ll never see the Motley Crue roadie again.  We may never see Bubble Guppies again.  Let’s just enjoy the moment. That’s what really matters; spending time together as daddy and daughter.

As we walked back to our seats for the second act, I also thought, I should try and hook it up with Super-Granny. That bitch is hella loaded.

– Ryan

(note – The Bubble Guppies didn’t play “The Restaurant Song”.  That’s like going to see Aerosmith and them not playing “Dream On”. My only disappointment of the show.)

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More cowbell!

Welcome to Dad Blog

 

Welcome to Dad Blog.

I’m a single dad of two really awesome kids.  You’re probably here because you’re a parent, a single parent, or maybe you’d like to be a parent someday and are wondering if all that craziness is really for you.  Actually, if you aren’t one of those three then I’m a little worried about why you’re here.

This blog isn’t one of those family oriented sites that you can sit down with your kids and learn some ABCs.  No, I plan on using some good ol’ fashioned swear words.  Fuck shit piss.  There’s three right there.

I’ll be looking at life as a single parent.  The adventures, the day to day activities, the fucked up differences between kids today and when we were kids, and everything else that falls in there.  I’m new to this “Hot Single Dad” thing (okay, I added the hot part in there in hopes of some single moms reading) so it’s like you all get to be on this journey with me.

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We’ll have some fun, some cereal, and sometimes we’ll just wonder what the fuck, as is the case with a book we’ll be looking at soon called “Why Did Grandpa Have To Die?”  And yes, we’ll spend some time reading Everyone Poops too.  We can’t do it all in one day though.

My daughter, Ryleigh, is six, in kindergarten, and she likes to do creative stuff.  When I think of her, I’m all smiles.  Deep down I know that’s because she’s still six years old and thinks her dad is the greatest guy in the universe.  Someday soon she’ll be thirteen or fourteen and hate me because I won’t let her go on a date with a boy five years older than her.  He’ll probably be a Montreal Canadiens fan too, just to spite me.

The boy, Grayson, is two, and he’ll be starting potty training soon.  So just imagine the adventures I’ll be having.

So for now, welcome to the shit show that is Dad Blog.

Ryan