In case you parents forgot, and for those who are expecting, the moment your first child is born your identity begins to leak from your body like air from a raft and gas from a tank. Quickly, and quite painfully, you accept this as you can’t taste the wonderful pizza you’re eating at a holiday party at a friend’s because that concentration must shift toward preventing your son from blinding himself with a Hello Kitty pen. And when you’re not at a party—when it’s just your little family—you must share your porcini-crusted fillet with junior when he refuses to eat his chicken fingers. And that’s just with one child. Once the second pops out of the vaginal canal or the abdomen, or arrives in the mail, you are a tire and they are the machete slashing your identity right out. When you have kids, you die twice. First your sense of self expires then later your body.

If there’s one place where I feel like my own man, it’s in my car. Sure there’s a car seat in the back, crumbs layering the interior and a sippy cup that wanders. But I’ve got my satellite radio, which means my music, and of course, Howard Stern. If Jake fusses, I just turn it louder and let the Sybian drown him out. I’m in command. The leak feels patched.

The problem is when we all get in the car. Amy doesn’t like Howard Stern, which makes me wonder why we’re even married.  However, we can agree on some of the satellite music channels and even terrestrial radio stations WXRT and WDRV. But none of this matters to Jake. When he says, “Mu mu,” or music, I’m forced to press the forbidden CD button on the stereo. I don’t have “Ten”, “Full Moon Fever” or the “White Album,” in my CD player. I have a CD from a birthday party with a bunch of kids songs that suck. Amy also has in her car a CD from a birthday party with a bunch of kids songs that suck. When I first got satellite radio, I felt like I was 16 again because all I wanted to do was drive. Rush hour made me happy because I could listen longer to the Stern Show. Now I’m stuck in hell listening to songs called “Doodle Bug,” “Pop Fly,” and “Walker Joe.”  We didn’t make a goodie bag birthday CD for Jake’s first birthday, but I’m going to make one of me shitting when he turns two. The tracks will be called “Chipotle”, “The Cafeteria Food”, “Lots of Salad”, and so on. And I’ll shit in the bag it comes in.

To add insult to castration, I find myself humming, even singing these songs in front of my computer at work or in line to get coffee.  Yesterday I started singing, “Cause it’s a pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pah pop fly pop fly!”  A middle-aged woman looked at me aghast. She either has no kids or does and hates the songs like me.

I could blame my friends for making the horrible CD’s, but they are not the source. The source is Justin Roberts, and I hate him.

The sequel to the groundbreaking What to Expect When You’re Expecting is called What to Expect in Your First Year, and it’s just as long. I wanted to write it. It would’ve been one page with a picture of Justin Roberts that read, This bag of shit will ruin your life.

Justin Roberts is from Chicago, which makes me less embarrassed about Rod Blagojevich. Here’s why he’s a fucking asshole:

Scam Artist

He plays Ravinia, which should not be allowed. Ravinia is an outdoor amphitheater concert venue, and it is unique and wonderful. You go more for the relaxing experience than the music, which includes preparing a gourmet picnic and enjoying a night under the stars and the influence of wine. It’s another reason why Chicagoland is second to none in the summer. Now this rancid tampon has tainted it. Not only does he bring his shit music to Ravinia, but I have to bring Jake to Ravinia, colossally fucking the relaxing experience, and forcing me to listen to his garbage live. If that weren’t enough, this cocksucker has the gall to play less than an hour. But you are spared then, you might think. Wrong. It takes 45 minutes just to get settled with all of Jake’s stuff. That includes feeding him and changing his clothes after he bathes in ketchup. When we’re ready, the show’s already over. Eat shit Justin Roberts. You motherfucker, you.

Making Light of a Disaster

Justin Roberts thinks he’s real cute. He’s got that charming, nerdy and whimsical look that screams I listen to NPR, but I’m really fun, too! He’s so cute and clever he thought he should write a song called “Meltdown.” I bet he sat in one of those chairs at a Caribou, scribbling the lyrics:

Now he’s having a meltdown
Didn’t know that he felt down
A m-m-m-m-m meltdown

Hee hee. I’m so cute and clever. Let’s see what else I can come up with:

And I know that this might sound outrageous, outrageous
But a meltdown is contagious, contagious
Now Mom and me were having an M-E-L-T-D – down
Now Mom and me were having an M-E-L-T-D – down

If Justin Roberts actually had kids he would know that meltdowns should not be celebrated. They are catastrophes. I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned them before. They don’t inspire me to sing cheerfully. No. They make me wish I kept a pistol in the glove box so that I could shoot myself in the face. There aren’t any happy songs about gonorrhea, but I’m going to write one now, and it’s dedicated to you Justin Roberts because I pray you catch it.

Justin Roberts has gonorrhea
Enjoy your violent diarrhea
g-g-g-g-g gonorrhea

And I know that this might sound outrageous, outrageous
But gonorrhea is contagious, contagious
You fooled around with your Mom
Yeah, you two got it on
Infection spread to your epididymis
Causing yellowish discharge from your penis
Your Mom and you have G-O-N-O– rrhea
Your Mom and you have G-O-N-O– rrhea

Doesn’t Have Kids of His Own

When I must capitulate to Jake’s whining and switch music, it’s always during a great song. For example, tonight  I perked up at the smooth keyboard intro. of “Tempted.”  And then…

“Mu mu,” which means My music, now!

I could have swallowed this a little better and even be more forgiving if I knew Justin Roberts had children of his own to answer to.  Of course he doesn’t. The fuckhole.

 

My elders tell me that kids grow up fast. I say bring it on.

In our house we piss on the tradition that says Hanukkah is good for eight gifts. Believe me, I like Hanukkah just the way it is, but we’ve juiced it up, and it’s our own damn fault. We were the assholes for the last month who bought every toy we saw at Costco, Target and those over-priced catalogues, because we thought Jake just had to have them.

“Oh!” We’d gasp. “I think Jake needs this for Hanukkah,” referring to a truck puzzle (Jake already has four.)

We spent money like Michael Jackson at Caesar’s Palace. When I was a kid, I got one gift per night for eight nights. By my calculations, that’s eight presents. Well, when our month-long damage was done and we returned to Neverland Ranch, we’d compiled over 20 presents for Jake. That’s not Hanukkah; that’s a fucking toy drive. When the stories break that Toys For Tots and the Salvation Army collected the fewest toys ever this year, don’t blame the recession. It’s our greedy asses and the prince monster we’re creating.

Amy wrapped all the presents and piled them Jenga-style on a perch next to our stairs. I was certain that when she pulled the first gift the rest would fall and crush us and we’d die. We didn’t die, but we did over-indulge our son. We gave him at least two gifts each night, and it didn’t take Jake long to figure out the emerging pattern. By the second night, greed had taken over. Jake opened his first present, and like shitheads, we fussed over the occasion more than him. He opened the next, took it in for a second, then said, “Mo Hanunnah.”

“You’ll get more tomorrow,” I said.

“No,” said Jake sporting his new expression of indignation. “Mo Hanunnah.”

“Sweety,” Amy said, “if we give you all your presents now, you won’t have anymore for the rest of Hanukkah.”

“No! Mo Hanunnah!”

Amy turned to me. “What if we just give him one more?”

“What if I just knock his teeth out?”

We gave him another present, which I suppose was fine since one of his gifts was a train whistle. Not my pick, by the way. I mean a train whistle, really?

Two nights in and Jake had already scored five presents. We were setting the bar way too high and we knew it. I could only imagine what Judah and his Maccabees were saying as they rolled in their graves. We fought for this shit?

Our Hanukkah wasn’t all misery. Though all my wife got me was a book, (I love it Aim! It’s just like a GPS except it’s a book.) it was neat experiencing the gift-giving through Jake’s eyes. Below are some notable presents and a rating system from one to five Hanunnahs based on Jake’s reaction.

Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah

Kiddy Kitchen. “I think it’s a great gift if our child was named Rebbecca,” I told Amy when she first mentioned it. I couldn’t have been more off. Jake ran to it and loves it. We didn’t get him an apron, though.

Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah

Emergency Rescue Vehicle Set. Jake’s eyes lit up when he saw the fire truck, EMS van and helicopter.

“Ambeebee!”

“That’s right,” Amy said. “Ambulance!”

“Jakey,” I said. “Ambulances transport the dying.”

Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah

Toy Dyson Vacuum Cleaner. A lot of babies like the Wiggles. Jake is into vacuum cleaners. Often, he’ll hide in our laundry room to be comforted by the real Dyson. It’s his security blanket. Naturally, he took to the miniature version.

Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah

Train Whistle. I wasn’t just being a dick before. Jake doesn’t understand how to use it.

Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah Hanunnah

Sesame Street Shirt. We lit the candles, sung the prayers, and misled our child.

“Hanunnah!”

“Wait till you see what we got for you?” Amy said.

Beaming, she handed Jake his present. He tore open the wrapping paper and stared blankly at the piece of shit that was inside. Amy brandished the long-sleeve.

“It’s a Sesame Street shirt!”

What Jake did next reassured me that he’ll never require occupational therapy. He swatted it away and said,”Mo Hanunnah!”

 

The eighth night might have passed, but Hanukkah is not over for Jake. Not only do we exceed the Talmudic gift limit, we also draw out Hanukkah like the NBA playoffs. Each year on Christmas night, just to stick it to the Goyim, Amy’s family comes over for a final round of Hanukkah gift giving. I’m sure my in-laws will do serious damage. Any hope we had for bringing Jake back down to earth will be shattered. I anticipate that by night’s end, including our gifts, Jake’s cache will be in the 50′s.

No mo Hanunnah.

My Uncle Gary (the cool uncle) enjoyed playing with our toys more than we did. I didn’t appreciate it when he insisted on driving my first ever radio controlled car into a wall until it broke. But my brother and I were grateful when stuck that Uncle Gary could advance us to the next level of a video game. We breezed through Mike Tyson’s Punchout until the second Bald Bull. “Pussies,” we called the fighters until that burly Turkish fuck humbled us over and over again. On his first try, Uncle Gary knew to jab Mr. Bull in his stomach as he charged and then tee off on his face.  I wondered, though, here and there why someone who could drive and drink coffee would be interested in toys. Hadn’t he been there, done that?

I admit that I played with G.I. Joe action figures a little too long—I was 15 and still making staccato machine gun sounds. They were my favorite along with all things Star Wars and the Tyco tracks and cars. But for nearly 20 years now, I’ve had no interest in toys. With the exception of baby toys, I don’t even know what toys today look like. Then I went to Target, and the gap was bridged.

Since we’re married, and we have a baby, we run the same Goddamn errands every weekend: Costco, Trader Joe’s and Target (with a little Kohl’s Children’s Museum mixed in, so Jake can contract his monthly bout of Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease).  At Target recently, Amy asked if I could watch Jake while she looked in the women’s clothes section.

“No,” I said. “He’ll meltdown, and I don’t know what to do when he melts down.”

She went anyway, and Jake began to cry. I pushed the cart, so he wouldn’t watch her abandon us, and this helped. We walked down one of the Christmas aisles, and Jake was very taken.

“Yeeites,” he said. Or lights. “Yeeites, yeah.” He says “yeah” after everything he identifies to reaffirm he knows what he’s talking about. He sounds like a baby Rain Man. It’s cute.

“Tree! Tree, yeah.”

“Book! Book, yeah.”

“Ten minutes till Wapner,” I said.

“Wapnuh, yeah.”

The next aisle was stuffed animal heaven. In fact, the entire animal kingdom was represented, ranging from dogs and bears to alligators and lemurs. I plucked a hammerhead shark to keep Jake busy. The sign on the next aisle said “Action Figures,”, and as I turned to explore, Jake began to fuss.

“No!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Doll,” he said pointing to them all.

“Oh. You want to stay here and look at the dolls?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay,” I said, and walked to the next aisle sans baby.

I gasped at what I saw: the Holy Trinity of toys all in one place within feet of each other. G.I. Joe, Star Wars and Tyco. My father fatigue and curmudgeoness instantly lifted. I was a kid again but 20 years later, and holy shit had action figures and car tracks gotten cooler! Snake Eyes of 2009 has definition, a sword and an Uzi. Hans Solo comes with four guns, and the geniuses at Mattel created a Tyco NASCAR version with loops!

Now I see, Uncle Gary. Now I see.

I couldn’t yet buy these toys for myself and pretend they were for Jake. That’s  fine because they’ll be even more enhanced when Jake is older. In the mean time I searched around the house to see what I could play with. In the basement we set up a Thomas the Tank Engine train set, which is a hand-me-down, which is great because these dopey toys cost a fortune. And Jake loves trains. “Choo choo”, he says to the El, Metra and asshole freight train that blocks me from getting home faster.

Like clockwork, 15 minutes after I bring Jake home from daycare, he’ll stand by the basement door and say, “Choo choo. Choo choo.” Usually, I pretend not to hear him because I’d rather watch Jeopardy, but now he opens the door, and I don’t want him to tumble down to Thomas. Tuesday, we went down, and he ran to his set.

“Choo choo, yeah,” he said.

I started casually fitting track pieces together and I had a vision of the ultimate route design, a flash of brilliance if I will.  I caught fire. The version of myself left at Target next to Han Solo triumphantly returned. I created a fantastic industrial scene of inclines and bridges. Finally, I connected Henry to Emily to Gordon to Percy to Thomas in one eager train.

“Check it out, Jake!” I said. “Look at the choo choo I made.”

“Choo choo.”

Jake sat not beside or in the middle of the track, but right on one of the bridges.

“Careful. You’re wrecking it.”

I moved Jake and reconnected the pieces. Jake trampled the bridge again, this time severing the whole route in half.

“What the hell, Jake. You’ve got to be more careful.”   Perhaps he needed a demonstration. After reconnecting the tracks again, I pushed the train around.

“See?”

“No!” Jake said, and swatted Thomas and friends onto the carpet. I sighed.  Jake moved on to his cars, and I added more features to the train route. I assembled more trains and moved them around the track, making chugging noises.

From the other end of the basement, I heard a motor start, and it was bad news. I looked up, and Jake was fast approaching on his A.T.V.  He crashed into and through the track, demolishing it. When he finished, he looked at me from his vehicle, hands wrapped around the handle bar grips and smiled his devilish smile. This is the point where Uncle Gary, who would have children later in life, got to go home to his bachelor pad. 

And me? I just laughed. I put the tracks away, cleaned up the rest of the mess, and took Jake upstairs where he played with the rest of his toys that I had zero interest in.

Over the weekend someone punched my wife in the face, headbutted my nose, and refused to eat when we treated him to dinner. If you were to assign this person a title, it would most certainly be Asshole. Why don’t we test it?

You: Hey man, how was your weekend?

Me: Shitty. Someone punched my wife in the face, headbutted my nose, and refused to eat when we treated him to dinner.

You: What an asshole.

Notice You didn’t ask who the perpetrator was because the who doesn’t matter, only the what. That the who in this instance is a baby is irrelevant. It’s what he did that counts. He is my son. What he did was bad.

And he is an asshole.

Oh my God! Did he really call his baby an asshole?

Yes, and I’ll say it again. He’s an asshole. And you have felt, thought or said it about your own child as well. If you haven’t, you are repressed, and you will have a nervous breakdown.

Battered Mother

I should mention that Jake hit Amy more than once over the weekend and multiple times before (See, he’s an asshole!). If he were a man, he would at least have the courage to hit a woman while she was ready for it. Instead he strikes her when she least expects it, like when she’s sleeping.

It was Friday, and Amy and I were strung out in the living room, intoxicated with Thanksgiving exhaustion. Last year at this time, Jake was an immobile mass who just cried. Now he dives onto appetizers laid out on a low coffee table and wants to inspect the blazing fireplace, apparently not minding the deathly heat. Rather than enjoying our turkey meal like we did last year and each year we weren’t parents, we took turns chasing our son. During a respite, as I ate cold mashed sweet potatoes with hard marshmallows, I stared lovingly at the fire and entertained self-immolation or the act of committing suicide by setting yourself on fire. The iconic image of  the buddhist monk, Thich Quang Duc, entered my mind. How perfect! I thought. We even look alike! But I couldn’t because it was my turn to run after Jake.

Anyway, Amy was lying down on the couch and shut her eyes. I think I started to doze when I was shaken.

“Owww!”  It was the sound a woman in custody must make before giving a forced confession. It came from my wife.

“What! What happened?”

“No!” She said to Jake. “You don’t hit Mommy!”  Which was a whitewash. He didn’t just hit her, he fucked her up with a yellow Duplo Lego block to the face.

“Bad boy!” Amy continued with an angry face.  All the while, Jake was plotting because a few minutes later he hit her again, this time with just his open hand. Amy howled again in shock and pain.

“Jesus. You sound like a persecuted woman,” I said, not helping.

“That’s it. I’m putting you in timeout,” Amy said (to Jake).  Amy brought Jake to a corner, and following our pediatrician’s advice, held his arms and began counting to 30. By 10, Amy turned her head to hide her laughter from Jake.

“Why are you laughing? You’re supposed to be disciplining him.” I would find out for myself.

Later that afternoon, Jake delivered a straight left to Amy’s jaw. Again, she made her sound, which I started to find more disturbing than Jake’s batterings.

“Now I’m going to give you a timeout,” I said. I grabbed Jake, set him in the corner, and began counting. He looked at me expressionless, which might be the cutest expression he has, and I started cracking up before I got to 5.  I turned to Amy.

“We’re so fucked.”   

That’s okay, I thought. I’d revisit this, and in the mean time, I’ll tackle the issue of Jake melting down in stores.

Going Limp in Public

My boss has shared stories of her 3-year-old lying on the floor of department stores, refusing to leave. “Jeez,” I could only offer, not having experienced it myself.  Well, Jake reached that milestone last Wednesday.  We went to Abt Electronics to shop for a new fridge, and we pushed Jake around in his stroller and brought plenty of snacks. Naturally, this wasn’t enough, and Jake wanted to get out while we were negotiating.

“You’ll match Black Friday prices, right?” I asked the sales person.

“It depends on the model. For Maytags we…”

“Aaa! Aaa! Yaa, yaa, yaa.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“No problem. For Maytags we…”

“Aaa! Aaa! YAA, YAA, YAA!” 

I let Jake loose, hoping he’d trap himself inside a washing machine. I followed him from department to department as Amy continued the conversation. After several minutes, it seemed from a distance that a transaction was being made.

“Okay bud,” I said to Jake in the wireless section. “It’s time to go.”

“No,” he said, taking off.  I caught up and took his hand, and rather than following my lead, he became instant dead weight. What I remember most from Schindler’s List is how the prisoners’ bodies went limp and collapsed in one involuntary motion when shot by an SS. Presently, my son was Schindler’s Listing, except his motion was deliberate and Płaszów concentration camp, Zyclon B, and saving Jews were not involved. I peeled him off the floor and carried him and his screams to Amy.

“We have a new fridge!” She said.

“Great. What does it look like?”

Resignation

I’m amused by parents-in-waiting who pontificate that they will nip bad behavior in the bud.

If my child hits, so help me God. She’ll do it once and when I’m through with her, never again.

Yeah bullshit. You see I used to be one of them. To date, Jake’s probably hit Amy 18 times. “Owww!” Make it 19. We give him timeout, and the asshole just does it again. As Amy’s face swells, the timeouts seem pointless. But we really like and trust our pediatrician (He wears a yarmulke for Christ’s sake! How cute is that?).  We’re going to stick with the timeouts with the understanding that this is only a phase. Look, we’re doing a good job, and Jake is otherwise a good baby. He’s very cuddly when he’s not attacking, he shares with other kids, and he’s smart. We’ll live with the hitting and the meltdowns for now.

It’s unfair to Amy, but it’s paypack for me because I’m told I was a real cocksucker as a kid.