Tag Archives: humor

Dad Guest Blog #2

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My wife told me I had to write a guest article today.  So I am.

She usually writes in the early morning (and you were probably at a loss, wondering about the lack of an update) but I was still feeling woozy when I got up on account of the various cold medications still coursing through my veins.  That would have been an interesting article but for altogether different reasons…

The preschool where I work is on spring break right now.  So I get to be home all day with the children.   Par-taaaayyyy!   Woooooooooooooo!!!!

I get to sleep in!   All the way to 7:30 sometimes!

I get to arbitrate interminable day-long disputes over the frequency and nature of snacking!  (Apparently they feel the need to fill the sudden void in their lives with handfuls of cereal or pretzels or wheat chips or whatever else they try to grab whenever they think I’m not looking.)

I get to become intimately familiar with children’s programming (although I’ve instituted a firm Caillou ban)!

I get to enjoy the many benefits of not having an opportunity to bathe until the wife comes home!  (see:  snacking issue, above.)

I get to sit outside in rather chilly weather and shout at them to stay out of the road for only the 307th time!  (They say they don’t have hearing problems, but…)

I get to hone my cook-things-out-of-a-box skills!

I get to be productive and focus on finishing interesting and longstanding web design and music projects, some of which have deadlines looming!  Haha.  Just kidding.

Ok.  Spring “break” can be over now.

***

Keep up with the music projects I *do* manage to finish at brandonnelsonmusic.com

My not-funny-but-nevertheless-interesting blog is here

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Grandma

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My mother is amazing. She’s very smart, funny, and usually wise….but sometimes I question her judgement just a smidgen.

Yesterday we were at my parents’ house to visit. This kids completely lose their minds when they go there because she always has special snacks, beds to jumps on, different toys to play with, and satellite TV. Going to Grandma’s is pretty sweet.

I was taking advantage of the satellite TV when I heard my mother in the kitchen. “You’ve got to see this! Come here!”

So, I walk over to the kitchen and see this:

What the...?

Uh, that would be my three children, in various states of undress, playing with a footbath that is on “high” and pouring out soap bubbles.

My mother thought this would be a good idea. Seriously. The kids didn’t suggest it or start it. She did this.

The bubbles spread far and wide in the kitchen. The kids eventually all got completely naked and started having a nude Slip-n-slide-type party on the linoleum. Soaped up, naked children were sailing through the room, running in to cupboards and squealing with ecstasy.

It was no easy feat to clean up that kitchen after the party ended. But, like all good Grandmas, she hyped them up, gave them some sugar, and sent them home. Her floors were scrubbed clean by soapy toddler butt, so, I guess she really won this round.

I, however, will be the loser here. The kids keep asking when we are going to play with soap in OUR kitchen. And I have this feeling that someday soon I am going to walk in there and see they have started the party without me. Using ketchup.

 

Top Ten Reasons Why I Hate Caillou

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I just recently realized that I am not the only parent out there with a healthy loathing for that whiny, bald Canadian and his irritating TV show. In fact, there are Facebook pages and websites devoted to the subject. I feel the need to jump on the bandwagon and tell you all why I can’t stand that show in a helpful and concise Top Ten list.

10. That voice. Oh. My. God. I am sure Anne Boviard is a very talented voice actress, but when I hear that Caillou voice on TV, I want to punch her in the throat. For some reason, the thing that irritates me the most is how she has him say the word “Clementine”. PS, Clementine? Really? And the whining. Could the kid possibly say something that is NOT a whine?

9. The narration. Who is this invisible cracked-out Grandma telling me Caillou’s inner thoughts? She need to go. She doesn’t even tell us she secretly thinks his parents should medicate him. What good is she then?

8. What a whiner. I have dealt with four year olds and, yeah, they whine. But, they also STOP whining and do other things. Caillou is a flat, boring, whining character. And he whines.

7. Those G-D puppets. In some episodes, there are vignettes with Caillou’s cat, turtle, and…I don’t know…teddy bear? Ferret? Whatever. Point being: the puppets have no real place in the story. And hearing them tack on their little “And me!” chorus on the theme song is just a disappointing reminder that I am in for a half an hour of whining. Mostly the whining is from Caillou, but sometimes I join in.

6. What kinds of drugs are Caillou’s parents on? They are always all Suzie Sunshine about EVERYTHING. They never get upset when Caillou runs in to traffic or builds a biological weapon in the backyard. At least throw me a “time out”, people.

5. The clothing. Yes, I realize they are Canadian but, there is no need for wool sweaters in summer. And Caillou’s dad needs a haircut. That mullet is getting out of control. I like hockey as much as the next person, but there is a time and place. Ice rink. 1992.

4. Why is he bald?? Are they skinheads? Does he have cancer? Is it common for 4 year olds to be as bald as cue balls? Well, at least he isn’t sporting his dad’s mullet yet.

3. No one loves their little sister that much. No one. My boys love their sister but even they try to beat the tar out of her occasionally. (Last night it was because of a magna-doodle they didn’t want to share.)

2. I was legitimately hoping Caillou was French for “whine-ass”, but apparently it means “pebble”. I am very disappointed in this. Very.

1. It’s streaming on Netflix and my children find it fascinating so I am obliged to watch it before school. When I was a kid we had Mr. Wizard and  Fraggle Rock before school. Children’s television has become far less educational and far more whiny.

Medicine Bird

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You know what I hate about sick kids? They get better.

When Aili was feeling like garbage, she was easy to medicate. Stuff the syringe in her little maw, squirt the medication in, watch as she swallows it meekly.

Oh, but she is feeling better now and, unfortunately for us, the recovery period and the medication dosage period do not match up. There is far more of that bubblegum pink medicine in the bottle than Aili has patience for being pumped full of antibiotics.

At first she would just shout at us and cry when we’d put it in her mouth. Then she started kicking. Then came the spitting out of the medication. Now, she has somehow managed to morph in to a rabid badger at the sight of a full syringe.

She bit through my fingernail two nights ago. I kid you not.

So, we decided to get creative. I have tried hiding medicine in her food and drink before with absolutely no success. This girl has some kind of super power to detect Tylenol in apple sauce. She won’t even touch it if she thinks there is something that could possibly make her feel better hidden inside. But, I had a tub of Neopolitan ice cream and a heaping pile of desperation so, I had to try it just one more time.

The strawberry band of ice cream was the exact same color as her antibiotic so, I squirted a dose on top of the ice cream and put it on the table.

“Aili! Quick! I got you some ice cream, but it’s melting! You’ll have to eat it fast!”

She dashed over and was so excited that I was giving her a bowl of ice cream at 9 in the morning, she gobbled it all up and licked the bowl clean.

It was truly miraculous. Up until that moment, I was certain I was going to have to lose most of my finger tips to get her to finish off that bottle. But, of course, there was a problem. Two problems.

The brothers.

They weren’t there when I did the medicine-in-the-ice cream trick the first time, but I knew they would be for her next dose. I was only giving her a little snip of ice cream, but I knew it would be enough to send the boys in to a jealous rage. (I may be crazy enough to give one kid ice cream at breakfast and bed time, but three kids? No way, Jose!)

Brandon was preparing Aili’s ice cream and I pulled the boys over and told them what was going on before they could start begging for their own bowls. I let them know it was just so Aili would take her medication and that it was a BIG SECRET.

Suddenly it was okay that she got ice cream and they didn’t. Secrets are fun! They scampered to the kitchen to see the ice cream preperation and then skittered back, giggling. They were bursting at the seems because they knew a BIG SECRET.

Dread filled my stomach as I watched the boys watch Aili take her first bite of the ice cream. They were just DYING to tell her there was medicine hidden in her treat. They were vibrating because they knew she was being duped. It was almost painful to  watch them.

“MEDI-cinder block!” shouted Robert in what I can only presume is a secret-induced form of Tourette’s.

“MEDICINE BIRD!” screamed Peter, not to be outdone by his brother. They just had to find a way to let it out without getting in trouble for telling Aili what was in her ice cream.

Aili kept eating as I shushed the boys and reminded them there were certain things they shouldn’t tell certain people or they will be certainly going to bed NOW.

“MEDICINE BIRD! MEDICINE BIRD!” the boys chanted, running around Aili like a couple of hyper-active Labrador retrievers.

Aili dropped her spoon. “DADDY!!!”

Oh no. Here it comes. She’s figured it out. The jig is up. Those boys are SO going to bed NOW.

“Peter called me a med-sin biwd!” Aili howled, deeply offended by an insult she could neither say or understand.

“It’s okay. Eat your ice cream,” Brandon said while dragging the boys out of the kitchen.

She finished up her medicine and the boys were herded off to bed before they could spill the beans. But, all bets are off for tomorrow. Ug.

 

Organizationally Challenged

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I have always heard that there are two types of people. Organized, meticulous, fastidious type A people and free-spirited, unorganized, artsy people are the type B people. I picture type A ladies in business suits and type B’s in tie dye. The popular culture has really rammed that one in to my brain, hey? Apparently it started as a way to determine how likely it was that you were going to have a coronary. Weird.

I draw a lot and my house looks like a hurricane went through it. And no one has ever accused me of being anal retentive, that’s for sure. And I am reasonably sure I haven’t had an infarction yet.

So, yeah. I am pretty sure that if this “type” thing is legit, I am definitely a type B.

Well, I really want to be more of the stereotype of a type A person. I want my house to be full of clever, organized things in little toile baskets like on Pinterest. (I have a secret belief that every single picture of organized interior design is a fraud. That person spent 45 days making on corner off the house adorable, but the rest of the home looks like it was eaten by a pack of dogs. Seriously. I believe this. It helps me sleep at night.) I want to take an interest in de-cluttering. You won’t see us on Hoarders any time soon, but there sure are a lot of toy trains in my living room…

I decided I want to be somewhere in the middle of the A and B personalities. Take the good characteristics of both and apply them to my housekeeping, my parenting, my…whatever else it is I would be doing if I had freetime… More cleaning, less heart attacking.

I’ve coined this (in my head) and a B Flat Personality.

If you are a non-musician, this might not make immediate sense. Allow me to explain. Poorly. Notes on a musical scale are named with letters of the alphabet. A, B, C, etc. But, there isn’t just an A and a B. There is a note between them in western music. (Some other cultures have even more notes stuck in there but, that really complicates this so… let’s pretend I didn’t say anything about them.) The note between A and B is B Flat.  (Or A Sharp….enharmonic spellings will REALLY complicate this. I didn’t say that, either.)

So, I want to be a B Flat. It’s between A and B and is, arguably, one of the most important notes. Your first scale started with it, you’ve probably even tuned to it, all the easy music is in that key…. It’s a pretty awesome note to be.

In an effort to B Flat (Ha. Puns.) I went over to simplemom.net and downloaded the Master Weekly Checklist to help us with our cleaning. Sometimes certain husbands forget that certain chores don’t complete themselves by magic and I can also break down chores in to smaller portions so I don’t feel overwhelmed. The kids like checking things off checklists so, they will even get involved (until the novelty wears off, then they might need some encouraging…)

Here’s to spring cleaning, turning over a new leaf and retaining enough of my music minor to craft an almost coherent metaphor!

Are you a type A, B Flat, or B personality?

One of those Days

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Have your ever had one of those days?

You know the kind. You wake up late and are told there is a birthday party the kids want to go to that very afternoon so you have to figure out how to get ready for work, stop at the store, and drop off the littlest child at daycare in about 3.5 seconds. I hope that kid likes bubbles and chalk because that was what was closest to the checkout.

It was one of those days where ridiculous things happened at work. Where people were driving in to the side of the building and attempting to serenade the staff with stange blues music on a guitar. That sounds like a ridiculous over-exaggeration of my work day. It isn’t.

And then it became one of those days where your son hits your daughter in the face with a piece of lumber, causing visions of dentistry bills go flashing though your head. (She is fine now and he’s grounded now, but at the time there was much crying and bleeding and “Show me your mouth, honey. I need to count your teeth again!”-ing.)

You’ve never had a day like that?

No?

You want to?

Seriously.

I need a vacation.

Dad Guest Blog

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Well, dear readers, I have a treat (or some kind of strange punishment) for you today. The other half of the Mompocalypse (The Daddagheddon?) will be presenting a guest column today. Please enjoy my husband’s contribution to questionable parenting on the Internet!

——

I think I should have my own show on the Food Network.  It will be called “Dad Can Cook?”  Every week, you will get to see me prepare…something from a box.

Imagine the excitement!

Will dad read ALL of the instructions before proceeding?

Will there be milk this time, or will there be a “creative substitute” involving mayonnaise and water?  

Oh shoot…that was supposed to be covered?!

How many rounds of golf will be needed with the County Medical Examiner afterwards to “calm things down”?

Then the show takes a dramatic turn as dad presents the meal to the fickle (and noticeably-underdressed) children.  Will they turn their noses up?  Will they demand it be doused in ketchup?  Or will they gobble it up despite (or maybe because of) the surprise mystery ingredients?

And then, at the very end of the show, there will be a segment called “Lessons Learned” where my darling and ever-patient wife will explain all the “wrong turns” I made while I pretend to take notes.

Now…who wants some cheese(?) lasagne casserole?  Yum!

 

“Daddagheddon” has his own blog!  He discusses much more cerebral topics like college, and music, and…stuff. You should read it!

The Plunger Story

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The kids love taking baths together. I know it’s only a matter of time before an all-sibling bath becomes “uncool” and the tub just becomes too small to hold them. It already is at capacity when all three kids decide to jump in together. It’s like the clown car of tubs.

Last night was one of those nights when the kids all hopped in the bath together. They enjoy playing with boats and drinking the tub water. (Nothing like a slurry of water and dead skin cells to really quench a toddler’s thirst.) Aili wanted out of the tub first. (I think she is coming down with a cold. Or she drank too much tub water. Whatever.) So, I was getting her dried and dressed while the twins continued to splash around in the tub.

They were making a puddle in the bathroom that made me consider building an ark. But, they were having a blast so, I told them to close the shower curtain and go to town. I forgot that they like to take things three steps further. Always.

As I was getting Aili snuggled in to her bed, I heard something dangerous and decidedly worse than a wet floor.

“Robert! Look! It sticks to your butt!!”

Then I heard something that sounded like a Christmas ham being dropped on a tile floor. (If you have to ask why I know what THAT sounds like, you don’t know me very well.)

Then came peels of laughter.

Then…I was really worried.

I steeled myself and timidly peeked around the corner.

There were my two sopping wet boys, naked as jaybirds, standing in the bathtub. They froze and looked at me with that “Oh no! She caught us!” look on their faces. I looked back and forth between the two of them to figure out who did what. It was then that I noticed Robert had a toilet plunger stuck squarely on his left butt cheek.

A very USED toilet plunger.

In that moment, I stopped to decide what I was going to do. The Salvation Army store doesn’t accept live donations so, that was out. Bleaching them might be considered abuse. Pretending I saw nothing, closing the door, and making a strong drink was a front runner for a long while, I’ve gotta say.

Eventually we all re-animated and I took action by calmly shrieking while grabbing the plunger handle frantically. I momentarily forgot the power of suction so, Robert briefly came with it. I am not sure if it was a fart or an act of God, but he came unstuck before too long.

THAT would have been a fun 9-1-1 call…

I turned the shower on, handed them the soap and told them to wash. A lot. They should still be in there, if you ask me.

The night ended with them being passably clean. (I have serious doubts that ANYONE can be completely clean after bathing with a toilet plunger…) But, now I have a new problem.

Where do I hide the plunger so this never, EVER happens again? Ever.