Big shout out to Erica at The Ginger Effect for nominating me for a Liebster Award. Check out her blog. She has a pretty cool writing style.
Ooooh, there’s even some pink on it! My favorite color!
I’m supposed to share 10 Random facts about me, but my blog is more about looking at all of the crazy “what the f…s” about being a single dad from the inside out. You don’t need to know that my favorite color is pink, my favorite food is pancakes, I know all the words to all the Aerosmith songs, my Converse All-Star shoe size is 9.5, I can take my socks off with my toes and roll them up in a ball, I have one tattoo that I love and one that I’ll probably never get finished, I’ve seen Superman II over 200 times, I never grew any wisdom teeth, I think every day is a lovely day for a Guinness, or that I’m a Boston Bruins fan. Why would I even bother sharing ten random things about me?
Now I have to answer these questions (rules are rules, I guess):
If you could only visit one place ever, where would it be? – Ireland
If you had to spend the rest of your days as an animal, which would you pick? Why? – a really cool bird, so I could fly.
What are you most proud of? – I try not to be proud of very much. There’s too much pride out there and it gets people in trouble. I’d much rather be happy with outcomes and accomplishments.
How long would you survive a zombie apocalypse? Why? – probably just long enough to finish answering these questions.
What is something you’ve always wanted to do, but haven’t? – stand up comedy. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m shy or nervous. Just haven’t gotten around to it yet.
What’s the weirdest thing you have in your home? – other than my kids? Some people think that my having over 30 different Monopoly boards is weird.
What’s the most ridiculous fact you know? – the dude who invented the lie detector test also created Wonder Woman, hence her lasso of truth.
What do you think the closest thing to real magic is? – probably that trick where you make it look like you’re ripping your thumb off your one hand, but really, it’s just the thumb from the other hand, and you make people gasp and scream wildly in amazement while you laugh to yourself. Definitely that or hot fudge sundaes from Dairy Queen.
What is the most useless talent you have? – I didn’t know this was a competition… I can play my harmonica with my nose.
Is a hot dog a sandwich? Why? – I’ve always thought of it as more of a sammich. Because I like sammiches better.
I hope my son Grayson isn’t going to be a big fan of movies, because he’s never going to the movie theater with me again so long as I live.
Ryleigh, my daughter, went to her first movie when she was Grayson’s age. Two, going on three. She saw a matinee of How To Train Your Dragon, and then a couple months later I took her to see Frozen and my brain would never be the same again from all of the letting it go. So I guess I assumed Grayson would be fine to take to the movies now.
Boy, was I fucking wrong.
Ryleigh really wanted to see the Lego Ninjago movie. I don’t know why. It looks like a piece of shit. And now that I think of it, I can understand the looks on my parents’ faces in the 80’s when I begged to go see the Dolph Lundgren Masters of the Universe movie. Still, sometimes you just gotta do your best to be Super Dad.
So off to the movies we went!
Lego Ninjago was playing at 3:20 in the afternoon. Upon our arrival, all the tickets had been sold out.
Really? The goddamn Lego Ninjago flick was sold out? You mean to tell me that plenty of people actually wanted to see this movie? And they paid for it? Maybe I’ve been wrong about a great many things my whole life after all.
The next showing was at 3:55, and it was in 3D. Now, this blog post isn’t meant to start a debate about 3D movies, but I think they suck. There I said it. Fuck you. But I wasn’t going to wait any longer than I had to for the Ninjago experience to start. My anticipation was… very okay.
Oh, and 3D movies are always more expensive than regular ones. But money is no object when it comes to your kids’ happiness! Am I right? Right? Guys? Sure… give me a minute to get a couple laughs out.
Ah, that’s better.
We had a half hour or so to kill, and conveniently there’s an arcade in the theater. Grayson is still young enough to have fun by just pressing the buttons while the game is in demo mode. He has no idea what he’s doing. Ryleigh, though, is too smart for my frugal ways and needed a few bucks to play some games. She’s also smart enough to not let her brother know that money is needed. That means more money for her.
Then it was time for popcorn and snacks. You can’t go to the movies without having their popcorn. It’s pretty much against the law not to, and you can’t make popcorn taste like that at home. I’m not going to dwell on how the snacks cost just as much as the tickets. We’re all aware, and yet we all still buy it. That argument is so old hat.
So we sat down. Ready for some Ninjago bullshit. Nice reclining seats. 3D glasses. Super comfy. The popcorn was delicious, and the kids mixed their M&M minis in with their popcorn. If you’ve never done that, you’ve never truly lived. All was going well, straight through the previews and commercials… right up until about ten minutes into the Ninjago movie.
“Daddy, I’m done,” said the boy, as he stood up from his reclining seat and proceeded to yell and dance all over the place.
“Awwwww fuck no…” I thought to myself, as I grabbed him from the aisle’s stairs to get him to sit down. Did you know that toddlers have this super power that comes out when you’re trying to get them to sit down and they don’t want to sit down? They can somehow make their bodies into perfectly flat surf-board-esque shapes. I stood no chance against this little monster. There was no way he was going to sit still for the rest of this movie.
“Ryleigh, we’re going to have to leave,” I said to my daughter. I could see the sadness in her eyes. “Your brother, whom I love very much, is a terror.”
I may have said the word “terror” to my little angel, but you best believe my inner monologue called him an asshole. And a little shit.
Mostly, though, I felt bad for the other people watching the movie. All ten of them. Kinda made me wonder if that other non-3D showing was really sold out… anyway, they didn’t pay their hard-earned money to watch the shit-show that was my son. They paid to watch the shit-show that is Lego Ninjago. I asked the nice folks at the theater if my darling princess could have a pass to come back another time. She’d only seen the first ten minutes and I didn’t want her to feel punished for my son’s behavior, and ultimately my stupidity for thinking he was ready for this sort of outing. The theater gave all three of us each a pass for another time. I’m sure they know I’ll be buying more popcorn. It was a real classy move on their part. Thank you, Cineplex Odeon.
It’s too bad the free passes have an expiration date on them though. I was going to keep one for Grayson’s 16th birthday to give to him. Because I’m never taking him to the movies again.
This morning, as my daughter and I were on our way to her school, she started singing that classic little ditty, “Rock-a-bye Baby” to her stuffed animal. After a good friend of mine recently pointed out that the real meaning of another classic, “Ring Around The Rosie” was about little kids dying of disease, I decided to pay a little closer attention to these lyrics.
Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall
And down will fall baby, cradle and all
Now, I’m not about to stop my kids from listening to nursery rhymes and old songs because of some silly lyrics. After all, I let my kids dance around to “King Kunta” by Kendrick Lamar. They love it.
But the lyrics to Rock-a-bye Baby certainly bring up more questions than answers for me.
The baby – Why is this baby on top of a tree? Who put it there? Is it being punished for something? Is this a newborn baby? What’s the gender of this baby? Are we assuming it’s gender? You can’t do that in 2017 you know.
The tree – What kind of tree is it? Is it a big tree? Surely it must be to support a baby and a cradle. But we aren’t given these insights. Will the parents of the baby, assuming they didn’t put the baby in the cradle and in the tree in the first place, be suing this tree for assault on their child? Will their be a campaign to get this tree cut down, ultimately creating a social media debate about the rights of the tree as an innocent pawn in all this?
The cradle – Who is the manufacturer of this cradle? Was it a gift at the baby shower? Was it a hand-me-down? Did someone build it with their own two hands? How many Air Miles did the parents receive when purchasing this cradle? Is it made of wood, metal, or plastic? Does it have a famous cartoon character’s likeness on it, such as Paw Patrol or Elmo?
The wind – I know you’re expecting me to ask how strong these gusts of wind are, but really, they were strong enough to blow a cradle with a baby in it out of a tree, so I’ll avoid asking stupid questions. However, I am very interested in knowing if anyone checked the weather forecast that morning to see if it was going to be a windy day before deciding to put this baby (and it’s cradle) at the top of a tree. We can’t blame the wind for any of the events in this song, even though the lyrics are clearly trying to place blame on the wind.
The fall – Are we really that concerned that the cradle is also falling? Is this part really that important? It’s like that scene from typical action movies where the hero has to choose between saving his love interest or saving the whole city from certain doom. Are the parents of this baby so material in nature that they felt the need to point out in the lyrics that the cradle also fell? Are they going to try and get a refund on a broken cradle while their baby is in the hospital with a concussion? When these people are denied a refund because the warranty doesn’t cover child neglect, are they going to ask to speak to the manager?
Ultimately, it may be time to update the lyrics to Rock-a-bye Baby:
Rock-a-bye baby, placed in a cradle by awful parents, and dangling from the treetop
When the innocent wind comes and inevitably blows a large gust as reported on the weather network this morning, the poorly constructed cradle will rock
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall (*I think this line can be left alone the way it is)
And down will fall the gender neutral baby and the cradle as the negligent parents watch on, trying to figure out how they’ll talk their way out of this one, explain to their family and friends that, “we never had a baby, what are you talking about, you must be crazy,” and somehow get their money back for the now busted cradle.
I was thinking, maybe, “The Gonna Leave ‘Em At An Orphanage Twos.”
It has a nice ring to it.
For starters, I love my boy. Love him, love him, love him. Just love him. Love. Ell Ohh Vee Eee. Part of me seems to believe that the more I type how much I love him, he’ll start behaving a little better. It must be subconscious. Or some kind of voodoo.
Either way, I love my boy. Love him to the moon and back.
He’s going to be three years old in December, so technically The Terrible Twos should be over and done with, but somehow I have a feeling he’s going to be two for a little longer than expected. At least when it comes to his attitude. Some fine folks have even indicated to me that three is often worse than two. Those people are more than welcome to just fuck the hell off. Especially if they’re right.
Have you ever googled where the nearest orphanage is? I can say I have. I spent way too much time and effort on it too, because even in the heat of the moment, I’d still be pretty picky about which orphanage to drop the boy off at. I don’t want him stuck with a bunch of crabby old nuns, listening to them ramble on about Jesus all day long. I’ve also watched the movie Annie (the Carol Burnett one, you know, the only good one) enough times to know that as terrible as he may be he does not deserve a hard knock life. An orphanage with lots of playing, learning, and room to grow would be perfect – essentially if Legoland were an orphanage.
Oh come on now, I could never drop the boy off at an orphanage. Do you know what happens to little kids that get abandoned by their parents at an early age? They end up living in the sewers, growing flippers, running for mayor, and making inappropriate remarks towards Michelle Pfeiffer. Have you even seen Batman Returns?????
One day, he had a full-on tantrum because daddy (that’s me!) didn’t finish his supper. You read that right. He was upset because I left food on my plate.
Another time, he had a meltdown because he wanted a cup of blue juice. Why raspberry juice is always colored blue I’ll never understand. Have a tantrum about that, at least it would make sense. No, he screamed and cried because he wanted to have blue juice. He just had to have it. Nothing meant more to him in that moment than having blue juice. It just so happened that HE ALREADY HAD A CUP OF GODDAM FUCKING BLUE JUICE IN HIS HAND while he was throwing down a screaming session that would make Steven Tyler proud.
Then there was the really odd day where he decided he was going to put himself on a timeout and went and sat in the corner for fifteen minutes. All of his own free will. That was a good day. I marked it down on the calendar so I can celebrate it again each and every year.
Still, when I wake up in the morning I ask myself what kind of day it’s going to be. Will he be a good boy? Or will he give new meaning to the word ‘psychotic?’ Every day is a new surprise.
The Terrible Fucking Twos. Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days where you find yourself giving your kid the middle finger. But, with love. You know, like from behind a wall, or around the corner from their room after you tuck them in at night. You don’t want them to see it and start giving it back to you. You’re already frustrated enough without that scenario playing out.
With all the craziness and exhaustion, I just keep telling myself that I love him. And it’ll be over soon. He’ll be out of this phase and the Terrible Twos will be just a fading memory. I may even look back on them and laugh. Probably not, but maybe. Kinda maybe. It’s not impossible. Someday soon he’ll be a handsome little nine-year old big boy. Polite, appreciative, kind, fair, and with any luck a little calmer too. And then, without even missing a beat, his sister will be a teenage girl, and I’ll have a whole other desire for Tylenol.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I recently won tickets to see Bubble Guppies Live. I was ecstatic because:
I friggin’ love the Bubble Guppies
I never win anything
Those tickets would have been expensive
…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.
“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
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.
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?”
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.
(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.)
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.
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.