I forgot what it felt like to see a baby smile, his face lighting up just for me. I forgot the incomparable sound of laughter that comes from a baby when he’s tickled. I forgot that sense of comfort shared by both father and son when he squeezes my finger.

I also forgot that babies are assholes.

Tonight was TACO NIGHT!  TACO NIGHT! Is great because those of us who can eat solid food in our household love tacos, including my five-year-old, who can be a picky dick at dinner. My wife makes them with ground turkey, low fat cheese and low fat sour cream, which means I can eat seven tacos and not feel guilty.

I just finished my second taco, and I was entering my taco groove—the chemical reaction in my brain that makes me crave more tacos. Taco construction is almost as enjoyable as eating the taco itself. I get to stuff as many low-fat ingredients inside, until right before the shell cracks. Nothing stands between me and my taco.

Except a crying baby.

I’d been ignoring the buildup, which began with mild moaning and metastasized into fussing, snorting, redness, flailing and all out infant howling.

“Can you wait?” I asked.

No, he couldn’t wait because the selfish blob had to be fed his bottle and put down in his crib so that he could grow and develop. I sighed and shook my head to see if I could shame him, but he just said, “A bah da da da da.”

“Yeah okay. Whatever.”

I picked him up and put him over my shoulder, his ass an inch from my nose. Right away I could smell the shit in his diaper.

“I think he pooped,” the five-year-old said.

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah I do. He smells like deuce.”

I walked away from my taco in the middle of my taco groove, which is like stopping in the middle of sex. I stomped my way up the stairs, hoping to evoke some contrition from the baby, but he just smiled at me. I laid him down on the changing table and prepared myself. Babies have inexplicable strength. My son is just over two feet, weighs 20 pounds but thrashes like one of those super-sized fucking catfish that that dipshit with his fucked up English teeth pulls out of the water on River Monsters. Luh at that! The contours of his wiskus mean he’s at least thu’ee yeas old!

But unlike the catfish, the baby was not distressed; he just likes to be difficult because why the FUCK should any single Goddamn part of parenting be easy?

For those of you who change diapers, you understand that one false move can mean disaster. If you step away to close the door or take a sip of wine from that glass you couldn’t enjoy during dinner, your baby could roll off the changing table and fall to the floor. Or, if you don’t cover your son’s penis, he’ll hose you.

And for those of you who don’t change diapers, go fuck yourself.

When I change the baby, he does everything except cooperate. He grabs my sleeve and fingers with his River Monster strength. He stiffens his legs or bends them at the wrong times. He tries turning over. And he has so much fun doing it, smiling and laughing, that it is hard to get mad.

You can imagine how interesting things get when feces are involved.

He smiled, kicked, and cooed.

“Wgh ghee!”

“You have a lot to say.”

“Ehh ahh…wgh ghee!”

“Yes! Yes you do have a lot to say! Yes you do! You stink. You made a stinky, didn’t you? My little budgie made a stinky.”

I unsnapped his onesy, pulled it back, and slid a clean diaper under the dirty one.  I unfastened his diaper.

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got…oh fuck, Jesus Christ!”

The smell, volume and mess were so distracting, that I allowed him to dip his foot in it.

“No! Don’t do that.”

I quickly removed his sock and got shit on my fingers. I cleaned it off with a wipe and sighed over my taco growing cold downstairs. That’s when I realized I hadn’t covered his penis. Remember what I said about one false move? Well, I committed many. He power pissed, and it hit my chest before arcing and landing on his throat, creating a urine necklace. Still, he was all smiles.

“Wgh wgh ghee.”

He had waste on both ends. Three minutes earlier he was in his clothes, clean as a whistle. Now he looked and smelled homeless. I didn’t know where to begin the cleanup. Shit smells worse, so I dug in, using eight wipes to clean the stuff off his butt cheeks, thighs and the crevices, but not before covering his penis because they are never done. I stuffed the wipes in his dirty diaper and rolled it up like a shit burrito or shit naanwich (you pick). With my left hand providing a barricade for his body, I stretched as far as I could and dumped the dirty diaper in the garbage. Of course this released a waft of festering foulness from the existing contents, making me wretch and gag.

It was time to finish the job. His neck needed cleaning, and I had to put the clean diaper on. I took a deep breath, adjusted the clean diaper, and before I could fasten it, he flipped over and peed again. The diaper absorbed it all, but still, I felt like an impossible nimrod. I removed his soiled onesy, and he cried out of discomfort as I wiped down his neck.

“You’re crying? How is that fair? I should be the one crying.”

“Ehhhhhhhh. Ehhhhhhh.”

“Shit man, then don’t pee on yourself.”

Saving some kind of face, I put his new diaper and clean onesy on rather quickly.

“Okay. Alright,” I pep talked myself.

I put him over my shoulder, finished cleaning the changing area, and grabbed a pair of jammies. We went into my room because I thought a change of scenery would be good for all of us. I was wrong. I struggled mightily (surprise!) to put them on. They make infant pajamas with zippers and snaps. Snaps are impossible because there are 20 of them, which means there are 20 steps to take to do the job of one zipper. This would be easier if my son were a fat, sedentary fuck, but he’s not. He’s a River Monster, and River Monsters don’t hold still. And snaps won’t snap when River Monsters thrash.

“Seriously, why the fuck do they make these cocksucking fucking things like this?”

I looked at the baby. “Does this make any Goddamn sense?”

He stuck his tongue out at me. Each time I aligned a snap with its slot, he kicked.  I couldn’t get past four snaps.

“Fuck this.”

I picked him up, through his jammies across the room and rummaged through his drawer. All I found were ones with snaps and a Lego Chima figure that his brother must have put in there. The jammies that I flung mocked me. Somehow—I think the baby just wanted the whole ordeal to be over with—I snapped all 20 snaps, fed him the rest of his bottle, and lowered him in his crib.

Downstairs my taco lay on its side, leaving a short trail of turkey meat next to it on the plate. I slid it back in the shell, and it felt surprisingly warm. I bit into it and smiled. I felt a small hand press on my foot. My five-year-old looked at me from under the table.

“What took you so long, Daddy?”

I’ve been hearing a lot of the annoying refrain: get your sleep now while you can; enjoy your last bit of freedom.

I’ve blocked out the noise because those tend to be the words of pussy-whipped husbands. Plus, I’m already a parent, and I’ve experienced the chaos of bringing home a newborn.  My sleep is inconsistent anyway, and I’m a slave to my son’s needs. Check that: wants, so I won’t be losing much freedom.

Last night we went out with friends, who all have two kids, and one guy was telling me how difficult it is. I brushed him off, but he got to me eventually. When we got home,  I washed up, took a shit—which usually puts me to bed (I don’t sleep on the toilet, though that would be convenient)—and laid down to a pounding heart.  On the eve of the birth of my second child, the anxiety mounted me. Pretty…no VERY soon my lifestyle is going to blow up like it never has.

Everyone close to me knows that I need my routine. I don’t like to be uncomfortable. Remember in Rainman when Dustin Hoffman starts hitting his own head because he might miss the People’s Court? Yeah, that’s me, but I kick shit, too.

Yes, I was derailed when Jake was born, but I worked to establish a new routine, and even on Jake’s worst days, there are two parents and one him, and we have strength in numbers.

“You get no break. It’s brutal for the first year, but it gets better,” this friend said.

You get no break.

That’s the line that got to me. That’s what revved up my heart and brought on last night’s anxiety attack. The meaning of no break is already taking shape: I’ve turned down invitations to stay in the city to rage and crash at a friend’s. The band that I’d kill to see in concert next, Mumford and Sons, is playing the Chicago Theatre in August. I can’t go. Wah.

As a side note, the upside of being an anxious person is that I know how to get over an anxiety attack. Last night’s was far from my first rodeo. I know it won’t kill me. That’s why I’m happy when normal people experience them for the first time. They don’t know what to do with themselves. They feel a complete loss of control. They’re powerless. They think they’re going to die. That’s funny.

Our parents made having two children seem standard. It appeared very normal to them. Even though they may have felt it, they never pointed to us and said, “Do you realize what we’ve sacrificed for you?” I have with my son, you know, just to try to out. He just responded by challenging me to a lightsaber fight.

Now that I’m a grownup and women work and do more impressive things than their husbands, growing your family seems very hard. I think we can do it. We have to. I could use some backup, though. Our family will help of course, but I’d like to be able to afford an obedient nanny, who’d be imperfect enough so that my sons would still love me more.

An empty-nester recently told me what kind of reaction to expect from Jake when we bring the baby home.

“Imagine if Amy were to bring home a hot 25 year-old man and say, ‘He’s living with us now.’ How would you feel?”

While I do have the occasional gay dream, it would make me very jealous.

However, now I wish that could happen to gain a 3-2 advantage.

That question is from babycenter.com, which typically sends us weekly updates about the growth and development of Baby Rolf and not vaginal discharge. Usually, we read about the size and shape of the baby and what he is doing in the womb.

I would be more understanding if this post  came from vaginaldischarge.com, but it did not.

I think this one may have slipped past the editors. Either that, or a guy wrote it to be funny. It’s important that I share it with you because it’s a doozy. It doesn’t paint a very flattering picture of the vaginas. The League of Vaginas will be offended and should take to the streets.

In this entry, I break down the update. And in case you’re wondering, my vagina is discharging no more than usual.

It’s common during pregnancy to have more of the odorless or mid-smelling milky discharge that you may have had only occasionally before.

I just threw up in my mouth.

I also just learned something new: milk comes from cows and vaginas. That must mean that there’s skim vagina milk, 1% vagina milk, soy vagina milk and almond vagina milk.

How do you make milk out of almonds? Out of almond vaginas?

k

Chalk it up to your body’s surging estrogen levels and increased blood flow to your vagina and cervix.

Well there’s your answer. Vagina milk origins explained.

d

The discharge is made up of secretions from our cervix and vagina’s old cells from your vaginal walls and normal vaginal flora.

Wow. Vaginas do a lot.

Call your caregiver if the discharge is causing you discomfort such as itching or burning, or is foul-smelling, frothy or yellow, green or gray.

Foul smelling. Frothy. Hey, Ricky Santorum. Gays aren’t gay because they are Satan’s children. They’re gay because of foul-smelling, frothy vaginas. You sweater-vest fuckhole.

These are all signs of infection.

No shit.

Coping with excess vaginal discharge, you can wear an unscented pantyliner to absorb the discharge if you wish.

There are officially coping mechanisms for EVERTHING: chemotherapy, divorce, post traumatic stress disorder.  Discharging vagina.

I say go all the way. Don’t be a pussy. Fuck the pantyliner and embrace your discharge. And discharge everywhere, on everything and everyone. Goddamn it!

Don’t douche. Douching can introduce air into your circulatory system through the vagina, which can cause serious complications.

And serious queefing.

 

In conclusion, the vagina is super awesome and powerful. I think I’ll hang on to my penis, though.

 

 

I’ve learned the hard way that kids remember everything you say and that they throw you under the bus in the most fantastic ways.

If, for example, you one day say “Hitler” within earshot of your son, he will no shit tell the row of passengers sitting behind you on your Southwest flight,

“I love Hitler. He’s a really funny guy.”

On that same flight, if you happen to say “fuck” because you’re afraid the plane might crash during hellacious turbulence, chances are he’ll, without context, yell “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” two days later to his great grandmother you’re all flying to see.

With those hard lessons behind, we’ve entered the stage where I spell words out rather than speak them. It’s really an awkward way to talk, but it’s been in everyone’s best interest to so in Jake’s presence:

Discussing the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills

Amy: I like Kyle the most. She’s not as bad as the rest.

Me: Oh please. She’s such an awful C-u-n-t with that fachatca hair and botox.

About our exorbitant state income tax

Me: F-u-c-k the state of Illinois.

The Motherfucker who just cut me off

Me: That motherf-u-c-k-e-r!

l

Jake’s not an idiot. He looks at us strangely when we do this. Clearly, he knows were up to shenanigans.

As kids do, he’s catching on. Diners, Drive-ins and Dives makes me angry, and I mentioned what an a-s-s Guy Fieri was. Jake then said, “A-s-s.” Amy and I turned to each other quickly. Our ruse was thwarted. The jig was up. Three and even four letter words were history, but there are always workarounds.

The next day I came home, shot out of a cannon over my commute. I hate the train because people next to me are either sick or loud.

 

I barged in the house.

“G-o-d-d-a-m-n    c-o-c-k-s-u-c-k-i-n-g    f-u-c-k-i-n-g     c-o-c-k-s-u-c-k-e-r-s   I ride the train with!”

Jake didn’t blink. I was in the clear. Yes, I have to compromise the way I communicate, but at least it helps me practice my spelling.

f

Despite our best efforts, sometimes Jake’s mind goes to the gutter (he’s my son). On our way back from dinner in the city, I created a new game on the spot (because I’m a genius) with Jake. It was simple yet brilliant. I’d say “Jake!”, he’d say, “What?”, and I’d say something totally random. Then we’d just keep going and going and going.

“Jake,” I said.

“What?”

“Telephone.”

“Jake.”

“What?

“Toothbrush.”

“Jake.”

“What?”

“Elevator.”

I had to pause to think about what great noun I’d use next, and then Jake took over.

“Daddy?”

“What?”

“Penis.”

“Daddy?”

“What?

“Hamburger, firetruck, vagina.”

“Daddy?”

“What?”

“Han Solo’s cheeseburger’s vagina.”

“Daddy?”

“What?”

“Penises.”

“You already said that.”

“No, I say penises.”

“Uh, okay.”

d

So what happens when I’m not the perpetrator of foul language?

The three of us were in the car leaving Target like we do every Goddamn Saturday, and the song “Rape Me” by Nirvana came on. I figured if regular terrestrial radio played it then it was safe to hear with Jake in the car. Also, it’s Nirvana, man. The song begins with:

Rape me
Rape me, my friend
Rape me
Rape me again

“I don’t think we should be listening to this,” Amy said.

“It’s okay. It’s Nirvana.”

“Come on.”

“It’s Nirvana. Don’t worry. It’s not like Kurt Cobain’s going to scream it a lot at the end of the song.”

Of course he does.

Instead of worrying about the lyrics, we had one of those  fascinatingly rote bullshit conversations that married couples with kids have that centers on one or all of these topics: Costco coupons, Bright Start, plumbing, my inability to put folded laundry away, and windshield wipers.

Jake had some things to say.

“I don’t want to go to nap when we get home.”

“You don’t have to; it’s not time yet.”

“Can I have milk when we get home.”

“Sure.”

“Can I fight lighstabers with…”

Rape me! Rape me!
Rape me! Rape me!
Rape me! Rape me!
Rape me! Rape me!
Rape me! Rape me!
Rape me! Rape me!
Rape me! Rape me!
Rape me! Rape me!
Rape me!

As Amy’s fingers worked frantically to change the station, I turned the volume up because it was Kurt, and because I’m an asshole.

It’s been a few days, and Jake hasn’t broached the subject of rape. He’s probably saving it for the next flight or when he sees his Bubbie.

 

My fucknut friends with two children always ask when we’re going to have another. Of course it’s more of an assumption than a question.

“So uh, when is number two coming? When are you gonna give Jake a brother or sister?”

I ask them why they want me to have more children.

“It’s the best,” they say. “It’s so neat seeing them play together.”

No, I remind them. Watching two small kids play together is not neat. Neat is making the fantasy football playoffs, my Kindle Fire and the aurora borealis.

“Tell me the real reason you want me to have more kids.”

“Because…you don’t want an only child. They don’t turn out well. ”

I sigh.  ” You want me to have another kid so that I’ll be as exhausted, delirious and as out of my mind as you are.  You want me to have another kid because you fucked up and had another.”

Then I hang up.

Naturally, I changed my mind, and we’ll be having another boy in August. People have congratulated me. Why? For reverting to sleepless nights and changing diapers? They should be bitch-slapping me in the head. No one says mazel tov when you go back to jail or rehab.

But maybe my friends are sincere. It will be great. What’s not great about losing my home office to a baby’s room, sharing my wall with a horse cock-sized colicky creature and all but guaranteeing that I’ll never receive any attention from my loved ones ever again?

My wife is in full planning mode. I try not to think about these things until she’s in labor. As you can imagine, I’m not much help.

“What boy names do you like?” She asked.

“AIDS, Herpes, Captain Schettino.”

“How should we decorate the baby’s room?”

“With swastikas.”

d

When we told Jake, his reaction was what I anticipated: subdued and a little confused.

“There’s going to be a new baby,” we said. “You’re going to have a little brother.”

“Where’s the baby?”

“It’s in my tummy,” Amy said.

Jake looked at her stomach and cocked his head.

“Can I see it?

“Well, it’s inside Mommy’s tummy, but we can show you a picture.”

We showed him the pictures of the latest ultrasound. I immediately realized my error. A three-and-a-half-year-old expects to see a picture of a baby, not something that looks like a hocker.

“Where’s the rest of it?” He asked.

“He’s growing in my tummy.”

“Um, okay.”

Amy felt it was important to prepare Jake for the physical change that she will undergo.

“Now Jakey, my tummy’s going to grow and get bigger.”

“Mommy’s gonna get fat!” I said.

She glared at me, and then I showed Jake what he can expect to happen.

D

 

 

 

 

 

The other thing my fucknut friends told me was to remember to give the older child a lot of attention when the new baby comes, so they don’t feel left behind.

“Jake,” I said. This new baby is not important. Don’t worry, I won’t pay any attention to him. He’ll be Mommy’s kid, and you’ll be mine!”

Then I threw up the I’m #1 sign and Jake did, too.

We asked Jake what his little brother’s name should be.

“Baby Rolf.”

He’s been watching The Sound of Music lately with Amy. Rolf, you’ll recall, is Liesl’s boyfriend who joins the National Socialist movement. Rolf is a Nazi.

But Jake’s running with it. Everyday he talks about Baby Rolf. He likes to rub Amy’s belly and speak to Baby Rolf.

“Daddy, I gave Baby Rolf a kiss today,” he shares. “I’m gonna watch Star Wars with Baby Rolf. I love Baby Rolf.”

Let’s review: Rolf is a Nazi. Nazi’s murdered Jewish children. Jake wants his little Jewish brother to be a Nazi.

As long as Baby Rolf is healthy, that’s fine by me.

Since my last post (13 months ago), Jake has grown by leaps and bounds.

He now loves his pre-school, and the separation anxiety is gone. This is great news, but there’s a side effect to Jake’s new-found confidence: he’s become a sassy, insolent prick. His being difficult isn’t exactly news, but he’s taken it to new in-your-fuckface heights.

He pisses on his house.

He does, for real.

Jake goes to the bathroom by himself, which is awesome, but about a teaspoon of his whiz actually goes in the toilet water. The rest hits the seat that he never lifts up. We’ve addressed it more than once.

“Jake, you have to put the seat up when you pee.”

“Oh….kay,” he sighs, like I’m inconveniencing him.

I’ll wipe the seat, the seatback, and when I lift the seat to take my own piss, rivulets of Jake pee run down the underside.

On a recent Sunday afternoon, Amy was showering, and I had to take a shit. I was playing with Jake in the abasement, and when I turned on the light in the basement bathroom, the toilet seat (surprise, surprise) was covered in piss.

“Jake!”

“What?”

“Ugh!”

I tried the bathroom by the kitchen, and what do you know? More piss. I didn’t even bother with his bathroom because that place is fucking hopeless. It’s piss ground zero. I knew there was not only piss already on the seat, but old dried yellow puddles on the surrounding tile. I don’t go there. It’s room 217 from The Shinning. I’m scared of it. With Amy in our bathroom, I was out of options and too indignant to clean any more piss. So I sat right down on that wet seat and shat.

I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d just assume that our home was an off-campus house with six roommates who piss everywhere and don’t give a shit.

I can’t get too mad because this is all still pretty new to him. I chalk it up to a sin of omission, not commission.

Sin of Commission

Kids who can’t talk yet often tantrum because of their inability to communicate. Of course, when they’re old enough to articulate, you wish they couldn’t. Jake has the verbal skills to be very agreeable. Instead, he uses them to shit on us. He loves coloring and playing with his action figures. He also makes messes. I’ll go to the kitchen, and below what we have to tell him is beautiful art, are dozens of uncapped markers.

“Jake, please put the caps on your markers and then put them away.”

“I will not do that.”

“Let’s try that again. Put the caps on your markers and then put them away.”

“Later.”

“Do it now.”

“I don’t.”

“Are you crazy?”

“You can’t talk back to me!”

That’s my queue to punish him, but instead, I laugh because how could you not when your three-year-old is essentially telling you to go facefuck yourself?

Most of the time, I do react with a consequence because if you don’t, your children will grow into spoiled teenaged cocksuckers like the ones I used to teach.

“Jake, please put your Star Wars figures away.”

“No. Doo doo doo. Baam baam baam.”

“Put them away now.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Go in timeout.”

Automatic tears.

“I don’t want to.”

“Now, or you’ll stay in there for a while.”

“For a long long long time.”

“Forever.”

He goes, but not quietly.

“It’s not supposed to be enjoyable,” I say as I walk him there. “That’s the whole point.”

He still cries. I love it. He misbehaves, and he gets upset when I punish him? What is that?

He has two timeout locations: his room and the bathroom by the kitchen. He used to walk right out—like a goddamn cat—until a friend of mine taught me a trick.

“Just turn the doorknob around so that you can lock him in. Its cool. My pediatrician suggested it.”

Good enough for me.

The next day I broke out the tools and worked on the bathroom door.

“What are you doing daddy?”

“Uh, I’m fixing the door.”

“It’s broken?”

“Yes! Yes, it was very broken.”

“Can I help you?”

“Sure.” He held the screws as I fastened the doorknob that be would be used to jail him.

Sounds cruel? That’s because you’re the type of parent who lets your child buttfuck you.

He still kicks and screams when levied a timeout, but he never escapes.

Cheering for the Wrong Team

I do fantasy football and I’m in a football pool, which means I spend most of Thursday through Monday night yelling at the TV and my computer screen and thinking God hates me when my players don’t score.

I had no players going on the first Monday night game between the Dolphins and the Patriots, so I could relax a little. Plus, I was excited to watch Miami on Monday night. Even better, Jake wanted to watch with me. Adding to the coolness, he was curious about the game.

“Who are the good guys?” He asked.

“The good guys are wearing the white jerseys. We want them to win.”

“The blue team is bad?”

“Yes. They’re bad. They’re new England. I hate…I really dislike them. Their coach is a cheater, and he looks like Darth Sidius.”

The action began, and Jake asked questions about the game. It was cute. He wanted to know where the ball was during a run. Why did everyone stop playing between whistles? What was the yellow line for?

We were having a great time until he said, “I want the blue team to win. I fink I like the blue team now.”

“Wrong team buddy. We want the team in white to win. Miami.”

“I want the blue team to win.”

Just then I grunted because Henne overthrew Hartline in the endzone.

“What happened? Did the blue team do something good. I really like the blue team.”

“No you don’t. You like Miami.”

“I don’t like Miami.”

“For Christ’s sake, you do! New England’s bad. Spygate, Bill Belicheat, that a-hole Tom Brady, who all the women love. They’ve got everything, and they’re so arrogant about it. How could you cheer for them?”

“I don’t know.”

d

It could be a lot worse. Jake could be ugly or decide he likes the Jets. I just want him to do and agree with everything I say.

Amy recently took her last business trip to Dallas until at least December. Meanwhile, I played Mr. Mom, which is easy because I have tits.

Once again, it was just me and the boy, and I wanted to do things differently to make our time together a little more special. I had no idea how to do this, so I started by crossing our usual time-wasting activities off the list:

• Beating him
• Sharing a joint
• Teaching him how to drive
• Television

I asked Amy before she left if I watched too much T.V. with Jake.

“Do you want me to be honest with you?” She asked.

“So you’re saying I do.”

“Yes.”

It’s just so easy to turn on Star Wars, lie on the couch and download apps I’ll never use, but whose icons make my phone look busy.

“Daddy?” Jake will ask. “Can I watch when Luke fights with his green lightsaber?”

“Oh, well that narrows it down. He does that in all three movies.”

“No, when he fights with his green lightsaber.”

“As opposed to when he fights on horseback or inside the octagon?”

“No, with his green lightsaber on the ship.”

“Oh, Return of The Jedi!”

“Yeah, that one.”

But tonight would be different. I would engage him through…………………reading. I mean, he has all these Goddamn books.

I love Dr. Seuss. The man was brilliant, but his books star the biggest assholes. Even as a kid, I wanted to punch the Cat in the Hat in the face. That fucker ruined someone’s home. And the Grinch, well, he was a cunt. Then there’s the narrator of Hooper Humperdink? Not Him!

The first time I read the story to Jake I was appalled. Hooper Humperdink is this lonely, cute boy with a dog, and the whole story is about how the narrator hates him, and to really stick it to him, he’s going to throw a lavish birthday party (he invites the K. K. Kats for fuck’s sake!) and invite the whole town except Hooper. As he runs down his invitee list, he pauses to say about Hooper, “I don’t know why, but somehow I just don’t like that guy.”

You can’t do that. You have to have a reason. That’s fucking bullshit.

As I read it to Jake, he was so engaged because Dr. Seuss was a master of rhyme and meter. I used my best douchey father reading voice, meanwhile I was seething inside. The narrator “redeems” himself in the end by having a last minute change of heart and inviting Hooper. I wasn’t satisfied.

When I finished, I had to quickly excuse myself like I had diarrhea and shut the door to the bathroom behind me.

“FUCK! COCKSUCKER!”

I returned, and Jake spoke.

“Would you read Hooper Humperdink to me again?”

I read it again and again and again, and I finally started to enjoy it. Jake caught on and was finishing sentences, which was awesome. And I began to sympathize with the narrator. First of all, throwing a party like that and inviting Olivietta Oppenbeem and ensuring there’s enough ice cream sounds stressful and quite accommodating.  So leaving one person out isn’t the end of the fucking world. And just because the book doesn’t explain why the narrator hates Hooper doesn’t mean something didn’t happen earlier in their lives between them. Maybe it’s a story told in medias res (in the middle of things) like Star Wars, where later on we learn the whole back story. Maybe Hooper raped the narrator’s little sister. If Dr. Seuss were still alive, I’d email him:

To: Dr. Seuss

Re: Hooper Humperdink? Not Him!

Message: Did Hooper Humperdink rape the narrator’s little sister? I’m dying to know. Thanks.

Guilelessly,

David

s

The other thing we did while Amy was away, were masks. Not like Halloween or costume masks. Facial masks. I do them because the older men in my family tend to look like Edward James Olmos, and I’d like to be proactive by shrinking my pores.

I use the Walgreen’s mint julep kind, which is soft (and minty!) when you apply it, but then turns crunchy as it dries. Jake saw my green face once.

“Woa! You look like Darth Maul.”

“Darth Maul is red.”

“Can I do that?”

“This? No buddy. This is for mommies and daddies.”

“Okay,” he said sulkingly.

We were showering one night, and as he likes to, Jake was cupping the water water that drips from the hair on my balls. I’ll wash my face, and when I open my eyes, I’ll catch Jake doing it.

“Jake, you have to stop that,” I said the last time he did it. “That’s inappropriate.”

“Daddy, your penis looks like a banana.”

“Thank you…I think.”

“Daddy, can you put a mask on me tonight?”

“You know what? Yes. Yes I will.”

“I’m so excited. That’s gonna be cool. Will you put a mask on me and then put a mask on you?”

“Yes.”

I prepped him. I told him he had to be very still while I applied it, or it would get in his hair. He listened. I drew green streaks on his cheeks like Jack in Lord of the Flies, though we didn’t go and symbolically sodomize a gargantuan sow.

“See, Daddy uses this because I have wrinkles and pock marks. But you have perfect little skin.”

“I do not have wrinkles.”

“That’s right.”

I finished and showed Jake how to fan his face to help it dry. As I applied my own, Jake stood next to me waiving at his face.

When we were both made up, I took pictures and sent them to Amy.

She texted me back that I made her and her co-workers’ days.

Her co-workers?

Thank God I didn’t point the camera any lower on me.

 

 

 

In parenting, there is fantasy and reality*.

Fantasy: He’s older now, and he’ll keep himself busy on the airplane.

Reality: Get me off this fucking plane!

Fantasy: He loves baseball. T-ball will be great for him.

Reality: The North Shore meek, nebbish volunteer coach sucks, and Jake is fulfilled by rubbing infield dirt on his body like Dead Sea mud.

Fantasy: Jake will have so much fun at Amy’s sister’s wedding. He’ll be well behaved. We won’t need the babysitter until 10:30 p.m. We’re not out of our Goddamned minds.

Reality: Keep reading

 *Thank you cbssports.com

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Waaaay back when the wedding planning started, Jake was tapped to be the ring bearer. He was one-and-a-half then, and we anticipated that when he was three and change at the time of the wedding, he’d compose himself like a 30-fuck-year-old. We would spend the next year and a half fantasizing about how adorable Jake would look in his tux and tiny Chuck Taylors, walking down the aisle.

As the date grew closer—and as Jake developed more of a self—we briefly considered the enormity of the expectations we placed on Jake. Then he tried on his tux.

 

And we reverted to blissful dumbfuckery.

“Can you imagine how cute he’s gonna look?”

“I hope he doesn’t steal the show. But how could he not?!?!”

The week of the wedding, we coached Jake and watched with gaping asshole mouths how he practiced his walk while waving. Certainly walking in our living room for his mom and dad was equivalent to walking in front of 200 people, most of whom were strangers. Surely, shipping him off to a friend’s for a slumber party the night of the rehearsal dinner all but guaranteed he’d be well-rested for the 16-hour day ahead.

The day got off to a promising start. I picked up Jake and drove downtown in no time. He ate and played and then it was nap time. The best setting for his nap, we decided, was in the bridal suite, filled with giddy women and chocolate dipped Twizzlers.

My job as co-best man was to hang out with the groom, take pictures and sip Makers Mark from a flask. When Jake woke, Amy handed him off to her aunt. When I saw him next he was decked out in his tux.

Everyone kvelled over him, but you know who hated being in a tux? HIM.

Family pictures were next. Here’s where I wish I could tell you that Jake shined, but he looked away during every shot—because, duh, he’s fucking three—and instead played on the stairs.

“We need you to be a good boy tonight,” we reminded him. “Remember, we talked about how important today is and how you need to be on your best behavior.”

“I really need milk.”

We moved to a small room for the ketubah signing. Gentiles,  the ketubah is the marital contract that is signed before the actual ceremony. In essence, the union of husband and wife occurs then. The rabbi and cantor conduct a micro ceremony witnessed by the bridal and groom parties and family. The moment is intimate and special, but it can’t be intimate and special when Jake is agitated. At first there was hope. Jake busied himself with crayons. I didn’t give a rat’s asshole that he colored on his tux and the hotel chair. But, timing it perfectly as the rabbi opened his mouth, Jake began his meltdown. My mother-in-law glared at us.

“Get him out of here.”

We complied and brought him outside the room, but he wanted back in. I knelt down.

“Jake, you have to stop right now.”

He tried pulling way. I pulled him back and he collapsed and kicked in his tux. He looked like a midget actor being escorted from the S.A.G. Awards. Amy somehow calmed him down, and we were able to witness the signing.

We had a lull before lining up for the ceremony. Here was the prime opportunity to awake our dormant common senses and arrange for the babysitter to arrive three hours earlier when most human three-year-old children need to go to bed. Instead, we clung to our cockfucked romantic fantasy of how the night with Jake should play out.

We lined up. Amy  Jake and I anchored the procession with only the bride and groom behind us. We expected our overtired overwhelmed son to stand quietly still and wait his turn to walk and wave down the aisle before sitting with Amy’s aunt and cousins. Jake heard the commotion of the crowd and wanted to investigate.

“Jake, you need to stay here.”

“No!”

He ran to the front of the line, we grabbed him, and he melted down. I looked at the groom and he gave the no-go gesture, which should’ve been obvious to us months earlier.

Amazingly, Jake behaved during the ceremony, busy with the goodies from the bribe bag Amy made. I soaked up the ceremony, and when the cocktail hour started, I drank like a fucking fish. I walked Amy down the aisle and grabbed a glass of Champagne from the fellow holding the tray. I gulped it and ran to the bar for a Grey Goose and tonic, though I still did my job, fetching my wife and Jake food.

It appeared the worst was behind us. We had a bumpy start. The night would be saved. I drank more. I was tenacious. I cut lines, using my best man clout. By the end of the cocktail hour, I had six or seven Grey Goose and tonics. And a mini hotdog.

The doors opened, and the band started. Jake darted to the dance floor. I joined him and thought this was cute. This is how we pictured it. We found our table, where we expected Jake to sit like the rest of the adults. The band leader announced the bride and groom. Everyone stood. Jake couldn’t see, so we moved toward the front. Amy walked ahead to take pictures. They began their first dance, and Jake called for Amy. I let him go thinking he’d stand by her, but he ran to the dance floor, slaloming the bride and groom, who performed a choreographed dance number. Somehow, Amy and I froze. I probably thought that chasing after Jake would have made things worse. To everyone else, this was funny. Of course the bride and groom let us off the hook by laughing it off.

This marked the beginning of the end of our incredibly bastardized, ill-conceived fantasy. The salads came and Jake staged the first act of his final meltdown.

Act 1

Jake refuses to sit still and not eat the mesculin greens and cheese. Imagine fucking that.

Act 2

My brother and sister-in-law try calming Jake outside when speeches begin. Jake chokes my brother.

Act 3

Amy’s cousin tries calming Jake as speeches continue, and we take our places for the matron of honor and best man speeches.

Act 4

Amy’s aunt tries calming Jake.

Act 5

The babysitter can come an hour early. My dad and step mom save the day by finally calming Jake and transitioning care to the babysitter upstairs.

We deliver our speeches and enjoy the rest of the night.

Who knew the best man, matron of honor and ring bearer would crash the wedding? We should have.

 

There’s a lot about parenting small children that makes no sense, but then actually does.

For example, when Jake has to shit he has to shit NOW. It stupefies me because why shit on a toilet in a single stall bathroom at Potbelly’s when your throne is just five minutes away? It makes no sense in the moment, but when I take the time to process, it makes perfect sense: Jake is three and new to no shitting in a diaper. He is not cognitively developed enough to know to wait. And I’m just an impatient cunt.

But there was no questioning Jake’s behavior when I dropped him off at school for my first time. It was only his second day, and it really wasn’t as bad as I anticipated. It was much much worse.

A little background. Jake had gone to a home daycare Monday through Thursday and spent Fridays with my in-laws. We decided to add another childcare option to the mix just to fuck him up. And introduce him to a classroom structure.  Amy handled the drop off on his first day and felt more anticipatory dread than Jake did. She’d done a dry run a week earlier to prepare Jake, only she didn’t leave him there for six hours. It started off well. Jake was very curious about the classroom and his surroundings. Then Amy attempted a delicate and brief separation. She told Jake she’d be in the lobby adjacent to the classroom and visible through the window walls. Jake seemed cool with it. Until he realized he was separated. He panicked and ran after her.

Amy was tearful on the eve of his real first day, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking, Christ. Stop being such a fucking pussy about it. Jake adapts to everything. He can handle this.

The plan was for Amy to stay with him for a good half hour before leaving. She called me after she left, and she was a wreck.

“He wasn’t himself. He was scared. He didn’t interact with the other children. He just clung to me. It was heart-breaking leaving him.”

It’ll take time, I assured. Each day will be a little better. Then it was my turn to take him.

For starters, Amy wasn’t home. She’d left for Dallas (fucking again) for a business trip. Right away, Jake was upset.

“I want Mommy,” he said, sitting his bed, his hair pointing in all directions. “I really want her.”

“Remember, Mommy’s in Dallas,” I said. “But she’ll be home in two days.”

“I don’t want to go to school today. You can’t take me to school.”

And here, I was in a spot. I couldn’t lie to him and say we weren’t going, that instead I was taking the day off and taking him to Dairy Queen for breakfast. I had to tell him the truth and be very delicate about it, and still make him feel protected.

“Buddy, today you’re going to school, and it’s going to be so much fu…”

The tears started streaming before he could even make a sound.

“NOOOO! I don’t want to go to school.”

He stuck to my lap. I hugged him.

“You’ve already been to school once, and I know it was hard, but today is going to be so much better.”

The part of my work shirt covering my left tit was soaked with his tears.

“Don’t take me to school, Daddy!”

I’m an anxious person. A year ago, I was talking to my friend—the laid back fuck that he is—about how he handles stress.

“I compartmentalize,” he said. “I take things as they come and deal with them one at a time.”

Now, a year later, I decided to put that into practice. Jake and I would compartmentalize our way through this.

“Don’t take me to school.”

“We’re just gonna get dressed right now,” I said.

“Don’t take me to school.”

“Let’s worry about that later. First, let’s get dressed.”

This got him out of bed.

“Don’t take me to school,” he still repeated, but he was allowing me to dress him.

“Okay, let’s go downstairs and have some milk.”

“Don’t take me to school. You can’t take me to school.”

“Buddy, we’re just gonna go downstairs and have some milk. We’ll talk about school later.”

Jake nodded halfheartedly. We made it downstairs, and Jake, who normally shotguns his milk in the morning, could only hold his cup.

“Come on buddy, drink your milk.”

“You can’t take me to school.”

I searched. “Let’s put on your shoes and then we’ll talk about going to school.”

He sat in my lap, and I strapped on his sandals. His tears landed on my arms. I hated what I had to say next.

“Okay, buddy. We’re gonna get in the car and go to school now.”

The tears came even harder, but he followed me to the car.

“Daddy,” he said as we pulled out of the garage. “Don’t leave me. Stay for a very long time. Say yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.”

I swallowed. ‘Let’s talk about that when we get there.”

I realized I was droning on like an oncologist with no bedside manner. Suddenly buying more time seemed like it was doing more harm than good.

“You can’t leave me.”

10, I thought, would be the number of times I’d hear that during the three mile drive. Jake clocked in at 33, and as we parked a wave of childcare remorse hit me. Was three settings in one week the right way to do this?

We walked the green mile from the parking lot into the lobby. The cleanliness and openness of the place gave me hope. Jake could have given a shit. The director, sweet as sugar, greeted us. She held a baby.

“It gets better,” she said with empathy and confidence. “It’ll take a few weeks, but it gets better. It always starts this way.”

“Daddy, you’re gonna stay for a very long time? Say yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“I’m going to hang out with you for a little bit, but then I have to go to work.”

“Don’t leave me.”

The school is an immaculate and safe space. It smells always of a house that’s just been cleaned, there are several security monitors in the lobby, the staff are pleasant, and the kids who aren’t new are happy. These observations comforted me, but leaving Jake in his state seemed impossible.

Jake clutched his monkey doll—his security blanket–as we walked to his classroom. He whimpered and moaned at the realization that we were here, and that despite my compartmentalization and buying of time, I would be leaving him soon. Six children, clearly veterans of the place, sat happily playing at a table.

“Let’s go play with your new friends,” I said.

He only squeezed me tighter.

“Do you want to show me your cubby?”

He nodded sadly and led me next door. A happily scripted Jake T. labeled his cubby, and in it were the contents that we hoped would make him feel safe: pictures of us and a monkey understudy just in case something happened to his other one. Though this structure and environment would be good for Jake in the long run, his cubby—a makeshift home way from home–made me sad.

We returned to the first room, where we saw a father and daughter in our same boat. She cried and clung. Ah, a teachable moment! I thought.

“See,” I said. “She’s sad, too. You guys can play (commiserate) and keep each other company (suffer together). ”

“Don’t leave me.”

I knelt down, and through the glass, the director gestured that I could leave whenever, and he’d be okay. I trusted her. But like crossing the crocodile moat, I could not figure how how I’d leave here.

We settled on a spot in the corner, where there were little blue nylon chairs. Jake sat in one, his face streaked and puffy.

“You’re my brave boy, right?”

He nodded.

“Okay buddy. Daddy has to go to work now.”

“No!”

He wrapped himself around my leg like a cat.

“You’re gonna have such a good day. I promise.”

“Give me four hugs and four kisses.”

I did. I stood up and started for the door.

“Daddy! Daddy! Four more hugs and four more kisses.”

I did, and despite the incredibly genuine desperation in his voice shooting at my back, I exited. I called Amy. Now I was a wreck. She said the reward would come when I picked him up and how happy he’d be to see me. All day I looked forward to this and surprising him with a new Star Wars book. Naturally, when I I got to my car—parked inside a parking garage during broad fuck daylight on a Monday–my window had been smashed. Grandma picked up Jake. I’d have to wait to be the hero.

adsf

The director was right. It has gotten better. Drop-offs are still hard, but easier, and when we pick up Jake he gets tearful with emotion. His teachers keep reporting good days, and more importantly, Jake keeps saying, “I had a good day today.” He’s making friends, too. In true Jake cocksman fashion, his two closest friends are older girls. And he likes to show off his projects:

 

 

I’ve spoken with other parents there who say pretty soon Jake won’t want to leave when I come to pick him up. We’re getting there, but as difficult as it is to see him so afraid, I love how much he needs us.

I’ve been carrying a pocket-sized COMPOSITION journal with me to capture the things that Jake says, which become the inspiration for posts. Once I’ve got enough “material” on a topic, I write. But what about the  random pieces I’ve left behind.? Rather than let it all go to waste, I’ll share it with you here in a non-narrative, completely context-free post.

 

 

In the shower, where I’d much rather be alone:

Jake (pointing to my naked pelvis): What is that black stuff?

Me: Hair.

Jake: You have hair behind your penis?

Me: Yes.

Jake: Why?

Me: That’s what happens when you get older.

Jake: When you’re older, you get black hair behind your penis?

Me: Yes.

Jake: Oh that’s silly.

Drying off a few minutes later:

Me: What do you think of Daddy’s hair behind his penis?

Jake: Ah…uh…mmm…I’m thinking about medicine.

Calling my Bubbie on speaker phone, who lives in Dallas, a few days after the Mavericks defeated my Miami Heat in the NBA finals:

Bubbie: I’m sending a shirt to Jake. I just put it in the mail.

Me: Oh no.

Bubbie: Ah ha.

Me: Bubbie, what are you doing?

Bubbie: You know what I’m doing. I’m sending Jake a Dallas Mavericks champions t-shirt.

Me: Behave Bubbie.

Jake: Yeah, you penis!

Trying to get a word in edgewise with my wife:

Me: Jake, are you competing with me for Mommy’s attention?”

Jake: No. You’re a Bababooey spider.

Jake looking for toys:

Jake: Where’s Luke Skywalker?

Me: He’s in your tushy.

Jake: No he’s not.

Me being obnoxious after three glasses of wine and Jake turning the tables on me:

Me: Why am I going in timeout?

Jake: Because you were a bad boy, and you throwed my storm trooper.

After dinner last night:

Jake: David, you’re a Bababooey idiot.

Following his latest bowel movement:

Jake: I made a cute deuce.