Who’s In Bed With My Wife?

Fate tested me and I’m not sure if I passed.

Last night a screaming Mexican delayed my highly anticipated arrival in the boodwah.  I’m talking about enchiladas, not Hervé Villechaize *.  I won’t get into the details about how I spent my time, but it took a while and it cost me.  

After washing my hands, brushing my teeth and scraping my feet I ventured down the hallway to Shangri-la.  As I moved closer I could tell something was amiss.  The light from the TV didn’t peek out from under the door of the darkened hallway.  This could only mean one thing: my wife fell asleep or the satellite was down.  Either way, my entertainment for the evening was finished.

I quietly stepped on the squeaky floorboards making sure to hit everyone in its sweet spot hoping not to wake up the dog.  I reached out for the door handle and felt… air.  It was gone and so was the door.  My head rattled from side to side.  Something didn’t compute.  Was the door open?  Is this my house?  Is that freaking Mexican knocking at my back door, again?  The answers came to me quickly: yes; yes; and not yet.  I clumsily reached out into the void and found the door to be at an angle that confirmed my suspicions.  It was open.  I knew it.

I remained still for a moment to take in my zero visibility.  After about ten minutes I closed the door and stumbled toward the bed.  I feared for my toes because a laundry basket was in the midst somewhere in the room.  I’ve encountered its kind many times before and knew of the carnage that can result from one of my piggies entangling itself in the plastic netting.

I made it to the bed eventually.  The telltale sign being the mattress brushing against my thigh.  I made it!  It felt good to know that I can navigate so well in my dwelling.  Utter darkness was no match for me.  The following information is only being revealed because it is necessary for the reader to know.  I sleep on the outside of the bed.  Therefore, by default, my wife sleeps on the inside.

I reached out to make sure the covers were out of the way for me to crawl into bed and my world changed.  I touched a hand.  A hand very different from my wife’s.  It was a different size and not as hairy**.    The hand grasped mine and I froze.  I wanted to shout or run or cry, but instead I said, “What’s going on in here?”  There was silence in the room.  It seemed as though the infiltrator feared revealing its identity.  Then the words floated through the air like the mist from Niagara Falls on a breezy day; drenching me in a not completely unpleasant way.  “Hi, Daddy.”

To many of you this might be a regular occurrence, but it’s a first for my wife and I in our almost six years of parenting.  Our son just turned four and decided it was time to share our bed.  WTF was he thinking?  Well, I’ll tell you.  As I carried him back to HIS room he said, “When I get big I’m going to sleep with Mommy and Daddy.”  In my uneducated psychological analysis I’ve concluded that he turned four and became a “big” kid and Mommy and Daddy are big and they sleep in the same bed, so he should too.  It’s either that or some sort of Oedipus Complex.  For sanity sake, I’ll go with the former.

The events that took place last night made me realize that some things in life shouldn’t be taken for granted.  Things like alone time with your spouse and night-lights.  I just hope that I nipped this nocturnal invasion stuff in the bud.  I’d hate to see what would have happened if I wasn’t delayed by the screaming Mexican.

 

Copyright Linus Mann 2009 

 

*I know he wasn’t Mexican, but I just smile thinking about the little bastard.  It’s not my fault that I spent my adolescence in the late seventies and crap like Fantasy Island was shoved down my throat via Saturday night television.

**I’m kidding snookie-pie; it was close to your size.

Preschooler Faux Pas

Fitting in can be difficult for many children, but so far my daughter seems to blend just fine.  Her way of blending isn’t in the traditional sense, such as doing whatever the leader does, partially because she’s often the leader, but by being similar enough to the other kids to not stand out all the time.  But a  startling new revelation might just knock my little angel into the loner club because kids can and will be cruel… if taught properly. 

She brought her problem to the forefront by being honest and being herself, which are sometimes a no-no in the preschooler-eat-preschooler world.  I guess she hasn’t caught on yet how important it is to follow the crowd in life if you want to be comfortable and boring, like her daddy.   

Here’s the problem: she doesn’t like goldfish.  Can you believe it?  She doesn’t like goldfish.  I’m not talking about the kind your great-grandfather swallowed in college, I mean the edible ones, you know, the dusty freaking crackers that every four-year-old loves.  She doesn’t even like the rainbow ones and that’s her favorite color.  To put this in context, imagine a twenty-something not liking Red Bull or Barack Obama or a forty-something not liking Starbucks or U2.  This is a big deal!

The taunting hasn’t started yet, that I know of, but I’m trying to prepare myself.  What am I is she going to do if she’s not in the kiddy in-crowd? 

I wish her well.  I’ll have She’ll have to stand tall and take the heat like a man big girl.  I hope it’s not too late for her to ride this one out by not thinking for herself and start copying her friends like she’s supposed to.  That’s the only way she’ll be able to just be one of the crowd, like her daddy. 

Godspeed young beauty!

copyright Linus Mann 2008

Learning My ABW’s

One great thing about being a parent is the chance to be a witness to a child’s mental development.  The physical part’s pretty cool, too, but I’m hoping my fat gene doesn’t ever kick in for them.  That would just be another thing to blame on me when my kids’ psyches are raked through the coals during therapy in young adulthood.  For the record, my fat genes didn’t show their puffy face until I was about twenty-two; it’s amazing what a positive effect drinking and not exercising can have on one’s life.

As I was saying about mental development, my daughter’s skills and abilities have grown astronomically this year.  I’d like to give credit to her teachers at preschool for these amazing advancements, but I won’t, because it’s probably just a coincidence that this has happened since she’s gone there.  I know that I’m the catalyst that triggered her brilliance to come to the forefront.  I can’t back this statement up with facts, but take my word, I just know it to be true.  How could it not be?

With my son’s advancement, I think it’s my wife’s doing, because I have to blame someone.  I don’t mean to infer that he’s not doing well, because he is… in his own way.  This week he loves letters, not the paper kind with threats of retribution on them that arrive in envelopes once a week; the kind that make up those futile words.  Actually, he loves a letter: W.  I don’t know why, but his whole world’s about “W”.  “W” this, “W” that.  I’m sick of the freaking thing.  It’s not even in his name, first, last, or middle.  I tried getting him to appreciate all the letters by subjecting him to my singing the alphabet song in F-flat, but that proved to be futile.  He tunefully sang back at me, “ABW KLW RWS WOP XYZ W”.  What’s a parent to do?

The bright side of this is that he’s progressed, because last week his favorite letter was 3.

Copyright Linus Mann 2008

The Return of… Words

Wow, it seems like yesterday that I last posted, that or 106 yesterdays.  Well, I’m back and I’m ready to start filling your heads with thoughtful anecdotes about my family and my life in general.  Okay, I’m back and I’m ready to spout my views, spill my guts and make you weep.  Okay, okay, here’s the truth: I’m back and I’m going to write about anything that I find interesting whether it bores you to tears, tickles your fancy, or just makes you want to cry or laugh or shake your head or pull your hair…

Since I’ve been away for a while, I’ll try to catch you up on my life.  This is your last chance to look away before I start droning on, so don’t say I didn’t warn you if you pass out or fall in love (with my writing).

The kids have both changed dramatically since my last post.  My daughter has become an emotional roller coaster that knows exactly what she wants out of life and is not afraid to go out and take it, whether it’s hers or someone else’s.  This can be a little troublesome if the item in question is expensive or hard to conceal, but assertiveness is very important in today’s child-eat-child world, so I can deal with it. 

My son’s goals are very similar to his big sister’s.  In fact, he wants exactly what she wants out of life, but only while she possesses it.  This is a bit more of a hassle for me than my daughter’s issues because I care if someone takes her stuff, but I’m learning how to work with my daughter to appease the boy.  We throw out some red herrings and the boy is as happy as Heather Mills is this week, and like the former Mrs. McCartney, it keeps him occupied for a little while until there’s something else to be coveted.  Luckily for us that just might be a plastic frog or a drumstick, as opposed to song royalties or castles.

As for my beautiful wife, she’s just as wonderful as before and still tolerates me, usually.  She’s a great mother and hardly scolds me about my lousy parenting skills unless they are life threatening, which isn’t very often, you know, once, maybe twice a week.

My dog’s just as loyal as always and still holds a higher standing in the house than me, but I can deal with that.  Well, I have to deal with it because what’s the alternative, dog stew?  I’m kidding; I prefer chops.  Does anyone have any golden retriever recipes?  I’m kidding again; I really do love my dog as much as the rest of my family.  Okay, not as much as the rest of the family, but almost as much.  Kind of how the Baldwin’s feel about Stephen, but a little more.

As for me, I put my writing on hiatus to pursue an important goal: becoming a mime.  I was quite successful, actually too successful; I was stuck in that freaking imaginary box and couldn’t get out for days.  This kind of stripped me of my passion to be the next Marcel Marceau, but I did lose ten pounds.

The last paragraph was total B.S., but I do plan on making this site a regular thing again.  Check back sooner than 106 days (early July), because I might get on a roll, or at least a tailspin.  Huh?

copyright Linus Mann 2008

Urine Trouble

Today, I experienced something for free that I heard some people pay good money for.  Not me, just some people and maybe not good money.  Let’s just say it has something to do with the words “shower” and “golden”, but not necessarily in that order.

Before you get your panties in a bunch and judge me, let me explain myself.  It might be as gross as you think, but probably not as seedy.  I mean, it’s not like I enjoyed it… much.

A typical day took place before this, you know: cereal for breakfast with the kids; watch Sesame Street; kick the dog; and give the kids a bath.  The end of bath-time proved to be my downfall.  While drying my son off outside the tub something just didn’t feel right.  A warm sensation spread across my thigh and something caught my attention peripherally.  It was a yellow spritz of liquid traveling through the air with no concern of where or whom it hit.  My slug-like reaction time helped soak the throw rug and myself before I could plug the stream with the towel.

I swear the boy just laughed when I informed him of his offense.  And when I told him that it was gross he mockingly made a face and said “Arrh” a couple times.  I don’t think he comprehended the utter disgust I felt at that moment even when I punished him by placing him back in the tub to be washed again.  It probably didn’t help that he loves being in the tub and that I really wasn’t utterly disgusted, maybe not even mildly disgusted, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Now that the moment’s passed I’ve had a few moments to ponder what took place today.  My son PEED on me.  My son PEED on me and LAUGHED about it.  Now that I got that off my chest, er, I mean, leg, we can all get back to our lives again.  I mean, it was only a little pee, well maybe not a little, but it was only pee.  Like I said, some people pay for this kind of thing.  Not me though…   

Decisions To Live By

Not many things in life are as easy as being a parent.  I mean kids these days practically raise themselves.  Because my children really have it so together, I try to stay in the background as much as possible unless they need my help with something small, like: eating, drinking, dressing, or defecating.

Occasionally they do need guidance because they are only four and two and I try to expel my astuteness as succinctly as possible.  It sounds easier than it actually is because I can really drag out an explanation if I’m in my chair of wisdom.  That particular chair’s located at a friend’s house where I’ve been known to enjoy a few cocktails, and my kids are mostly at my house so they usually aren’t put through that arduous assault on their listening devices, aka ears.  Today was one of those times that a reasonable adult was needed to point my little girl in the right direction and fortunately my wife was the one that was home.  Our little angel wants a tattoo.  Yes, a freaking tattoo.  A freaking tattoo on her freaking back.

It really was a good thing that I wasn’t the one home because for a moment I thought that it’d be cool to have the only preschooler, that I know of, with a tattoo.  Her juvenile choice of ink brought me back to earth so I didn’t even try to persuade my wife.  She wants candy corn on her shoulder.  I mean, let’s be real here, that’s such a time-sensitive piece of body art.  It’d just look kind of stupid in April.  Besides, the girl’s four-years-old and everyone knows that bad life choices should wait until your at least ten or eleven.

I’m glad that I could be there for my non-branded little girl, again.  She’s very smart but my infinite guidance is always waiting in the wings if she needs it.  Lucky girl!

No School For You

Something just didn’t seem right when we arrived at my daughter’s school today.  There was a different vibe to the place and an odd odor floated about.  The owner of the school walked outside to speak with the mothers and me while we were swapping recipes.  This was unusual in itself on two counts.  Number one: the teacher usually greeted us; and B. the school actually has an owner.

The forty-something dictatoreducator advised us that due to a plumbing problem, class was cancelled today.  When I attended St. GiveMeYo$ I thoroughly enjoyed surprise days off because of things like snowstorms, water main breaks or faculty arrests, but my daughter reacted quite differently; she was distraught.  She couldn’t get it through her pretty little braided head that she was being denied access to HER classroom.

It took us a little while to walk back to the van because my studicious genius kept stopping to see why she had to be with Daddy and her brother instead of her school friends and teachers.  She wanted this nightmare to be over.  That’s when my sensitive side took over.

“Honey, school’s closed today.  That’s just the way it is.”

“I don’t want it to be closed,” she said.  “I’m the star of the week” (a rotating honor was bestowed upon her this week and she obviously looked forward to it).

“Me neither, beautiful, but it’s out of my control and you’ll still be the star of the week tomorrow.” 

Unfortunately the conversation didn’t end there.

“Why is my school closed?”

I figured that honesty was the best policy with a four-year-old so I explained that the toilets were broken.

“The kids won’t have to use the toilet,” she said.

Wow, that would be a solution if all the preschoolers adhered to my daughter’s proclaimation.  Unfortunately the teachers and the “owner” probably wouldn’t take her word for it so I didn’t bother making this suggestion.

“I’m sorry, big girl, but you can’t go to school today.”

That’s when the water works kicked in.  By this time we were at the van and she didn’t want to admit defeat so she refused to climb on in so I lifted her somewhat gently and tried unsuccessfully to get her seated comfortably.  She immediately ran the three feet across the van and stood in front of her now screaming brother.  I guess he already knows that old statement misery loves company.  At this point I considered joining in but decided the best thing to do was distract them and strap her in before she knew what hit her.  The hitting her’s only a figure of speech so don’t call the authorities just yet.  My “look at the hippo” stunned them just enough to give my ears a break and gave me the opportunity to strap the dejected princess in her car seat.

Her despair really set in as we drove away.

“Someone’s bringing a snack and I’m not going to eat it with my friends,” she said.

That’s when my supreme ingenuity kicked in.

“Would you like to have a special snack with your friend in the seat next to you when we get home?”

Her face lit up and she giggled. 

“Daddy, you mean my brother can be my friend and we can have a snack together?”

“Exactly.  We can pretend that he’s just your friend and you can have a snack and some juice together.”

At this point the doldrums left the vehicle and she speculated what the snack might be and so did I.  Hopefully I could meet her expectations with something out of the ordinary.  

Back at the ranch I rustled the kids into the house with promises of a fun snack.  They eagerly climbed into their chairs as I filled bowls with trail mix that had M&Ms in it and they were ecstatic.

My daughter’s passion for learning and socializing pleased me to no end, but the fact that a good snack is the only cure for her morose attitude might lead to a weight problem if we have a harsh winter with a lot of snow days this year.  Does Jenny Craig have a preschool program?

The Waiting (part one)

I’m not much of a dieter so take what I have to say with a (multi-) grain of salt and a pound of sugar.

I took the daughter to BJ’s the other night to do a little bulk shopping because we were down to seventeen rolls of Charmin and two 19.7 oz. boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios at the house so it was obviously time to replenish the shelves in our basement. 

We hit a little bump in the road in the beginning of our excursion, as my daughter puked in the parking lot before we went inside.  This was kind of odd because our boy’s usually the puker (see Yummy, Blleh, Bbllleeehhh, Yummy), but she’s a trooper and decided to carry on with the mission without any prodding from me.  All did seem well when we headed in because her stomach must’ve been empty by the size of the puddle in front of the Lexus’s driver’s door parked next to us.

After the quick cleanup in the men’s room the two of us loaded mass quantities of things we use at the house into the cart.  You know, like, four tubes of toothpaste, two huge jugs of refillable anti-bacterial soap, eight tubs of Vaseline, six jars of mayo and an apple.  Just things we needed… I thought.  I should have brought a list.

I knew that we needed wheat bread so we headed toward that area with high hopes of getting what we needed.  No such luck.  After pacing back-and-forth between the three bread aisles for about thirty minutes I came to the conclusion that they were out of the butter-top version I usually buy; all that was left was the whole-grain stuff, which I know is good for you, but tastes like a sponge, or cardboard, or something non-food like.  You may ask, have you actually tasted it, and the answer would be a resounding YES… I think. 

I thought about stopping somewhere else on the way home, but it was almost my little girl’s bedtime and I figured that we could handle whole-grain for once.  Let me rephrase that, the kid’s and my wife could handle whole-grain for once so I grabbed a loaf and headed to the checkout.

This short story made long was what brought me to my current state of fear.  I discovered yesterday that I didn’t buy the whole-grain loaf; I bought multi-grain instead by accident.  I really don’t know anything about multi-grain besides that it smells like PLAY-DOH, but I did read on the package it’s a great source of fiber.  This kind of scares me because my kids don’t really need any assistance in the bathroom.  Well, not that kind of assistance.  If anything, I’d like to curb their output if possible.  Even though this stuff went through my mind I fed it to both of them anyway.  My son’s eaten it yesterday and today with his jelly and peanut butter and my daughter today only with hers.

The boy has gone dump-less since before his first taste of this flavorless vessel for things you normally put on a sandwich, such as jelly, peanut butter, lunch meat, salmon or cheese, so I’m hoping it isn’t some sort of time-released colon bomb that goes off in 48 hours because I think the load would exceed the maximum capacity of his pull-up.  If this faux food affects people differently, my daughter might be in a bind at preschool right now if it hits her just right so I’m keeping my fingers crossed. 

It seems to be out of my control so it’s just a waiting game.  Hopefully it’s worth the wait.

No Playing in Preschool

My daughter’s new to the whole school scene this year so we like to interrogate her when she gets dismissed from her daily 2 1/2 hour ordeal.  We ask open-ended questions like What’d you do today, What did you learn, Is your teacher a bitch, and What kids did you play with.

Her answer to the last question floored me. 

“Kids are not supposed to play with other kids in preschool.” 

It kind of inferred an answer to question number three until my daughter revealed the origin of this edict through further prodding, er questioning.

“Who said that kids aren’t supposed to play with kids?” I asked.

“I did,” she said.  “Kids are only supposed to play with toys by themselves at preschool.”

There had to be more to this so I asked a leading question.

“Did one of your teachers say this?”

“No, Daddy.  I came up with this by myself.”

“Are you sure that your teacher didn’t say this while she was screaming at the class?” I asked innocently.

“No Daddy, the teacher doesn’t scream at the class, she talks nicely.”

After some reassurance my wife and I convinced her that it’s okay to play with other kids at preschool and that in fact her teacher’s not a bitch and I really need to accept the fact that my little girl’s in someone else’s capable hands part of the day.  At least it’s only part of the day… for this year at least.

Makeout Sessions and Potty Talk

My little girl’s growing up way too fast.  It seems like she just went to school for the first time last week.  Oh yeah, she did just go to school for the first time last week.  So much has changed about her, or me, depending on whom you ask.  I’ve caught her practically making out… twice. 

The first time she lip-locked the boy across the street, which was okay, sort of, because he moved away later that day.  No, it wasn’t because of some futile threat I might have or have not thrown at him that said something about castration.  He’s six, so he probably doesn’t even know what the word means.  I probably shouldn’t have drawn pictures for him.

The second time happened right in front of me, again.  This girl needs a little dose of modesty added to her Fruit Loops in the morning.  While waiting for the teacher to open the preschool door my angel planted a big wet one on a kid in her class.  Luckily for the kissee, he acted like he didn’t enjoy it so I didn’t have to play Pictionary with him, I’ll just keep my eye on the little miscreant.

Another sign of growing up or at least maturing came from something she told my wife.  A more accurate term might be im-maturing even if that’s not a real word.  She explained to my lovely wife that a toot, AKA a fart, flatulation or air biscuit is made up of two poops in her body smashing together.  She surmised this from the information she received about thunder coming from two clouds crashing together.  This kid might have a future in science or as a shock jock.  I prefer the former unless she goes into syndication with the latter.

As a parent for life, I guess I’ll just have to get used to the kids “growing up”, but I don’t have to like it.  Then again, there must be some advantages to them getting older.  Is four to early to mow the lawn?

Emergency Guidelines or Mere Suggestions

When I’m not playing with my wife and/or kids or writing I’m probably working at my 48 hours-a-week side job, firefighting.  This time-killer gives me an inside view of what many people do in extreme situations or at least stressful ones.  Unfortunately, I’m disappointed often by a lot of people’s attitudes toward emergency situations, their lack of realization that it is an emergency situation, or the fact that I have to see these people sans make-up or clothing a little too often. 

I’d like to rhetorically ask you some questions about some of the things I encounter on a daily basis.   

If four firefighters with medical equipment were in an elevator would you get on and press a lower floor?  What if you were about to be late for work or really had to pee?

I hope your answer to both questions was a resounding no, but I know some people are oblivious to their surroundings whatever the situation is before them.  In fact, this happened to me the other day when a rude little man reached into the elevator and pressed four immediately after hearing us say we we’re going to eight so we kindly helped him out of the elevator doorway and left him behind to feel shame.  People like this are not only ignorant and selfish, but also downright pathetic and should be made to wait the next time something bad happens to them, like an axe to their forehead or a fire hose tied too tightly around their neck.

If an alarm’s ringing in your apartment building and firefighters are going in loaded with heavy equipment and SCBAs (air tanks) on their backs should you walk into the building and get in their way?  What if your dog or turtle was still in your apartment or you left the pigs’ knuckles in the frying pan?

Again, I hope you answered no.  Normal people get out of the way of firefighters during an emergency situation unless they have pertinent information to share, like which apartment the stove’s left on in or if their grandma’s doing yoga naked in 4B.  Some things you need to be mentally prepared for.

If an emergency vehicle’s driving with lights flashing and sirens blaring either behind you or coming towards you should you pull to the side of the road or at the least stop your vehicle before it’s on your ass?  What if you might end up sitting through another red light and might miss the first five minutes of Judge Judy as a result?

This time the answer should be yes unless you want a fire truck to do its best monster truck impression on your VW Jetta or you don’t need your hearing, which will be impaired by the air horn pressed incessantly until you are in our dust.  You probably won’t be shot the bird physically, but make it understood it is being sent telepathically fourfold.

Feel free to pass this information on to your friends, loved ones and local politicians, unless they’re in the airport restroom because they might take that for something else, the politicians that is (see Larry Craig, US Senator for Idaho).

Watchdog, My Arse

Man’s best friend has a lot of good uses in this world.  Number one is probably being a, well, best friend, but after that our furry possessions perform numerous other tasks on a daily basis for their supposedly smarter two-legged dog license holders.

Like most dogs mine wears many hats, and he looks damn good in them, especially the Stetson accompanied by some spurs.  Never mind that, but he does serve many purposes for my family.

He’s a fantastic plaything for the kiddies, you know, something to pull at or climb on or just plain pet and he never shies away from them unless he sees them coming.  When he bucks them off when their hand or foot accidentally hits the right spot he looks in my direction for approval and I nod.  I figure that he needs to get his licks in, too.

Having our dog around fulfills a lot of basic needs at my house and none of them have anything to do with peanut butter.  His thick mane makes a great footrest which is mutually beneficial because my feet stay warm and my corns and warts and whatever the hell else is growing down there scratches his back for him.  Stress reliever is a job that my k-9 boy relishes, I think, because he always listens to me, most of the time, and no one else does, most of the time and this makes me feel good.  I didn’t even have to beat him to obey, much.

Fertilizer is a job title that most dogs take to heart.  Mine’s going for top dog in this field.  He’s so proficient at it that I share his talents with my neighbors when they’re sleeping or not home.  I have him do this because I think everyone should be empowered the same way I am every time I shovel up a load of yesterday’s Kibbles ‘n Bits.  It’s kind of like a Robin Hood thing, but has nothing to do with stealing or gold or anything similar to the story about that tight-wearing freak.

I have to admit that my four-legged boy isn’t as good at one of his chores, being a vacuum for dropped food.  The finicky pooch ignores the conveniently dropped veggies while scarfing up the chicken, steak or SPAM.  The sad part is that this was exactly the reason why we wanted a dog in the first place, sort of.

One of the most important things a dog can do is protect your home from intruders or Tony Danza.  A good watchdog’s priceless as long as he doesn’t eat you or one of your children or was previously owned by Michael Vick.  My family thought we had the best because he always barks loudly at people walking by or urinating in our bushes, that is until the other day.  It was just a regular night with my wife and I getting cozy on the couch using Fido as a footrest while watching The Girls Next Door when our child’s finger painting masterpiece sailed off of the kitchen wall and made an odd noise.  The not-so-brave doggy jumped up, stuck his tail between his legs and whimpered endlessly.  I guess that’s what we get for choosing a Golden Retriever.