My Gift To You

One thing about summer I never could stomach… all the damn sunscreen.

Growing up in the South, I participated in more than my fair share of greased pig contests. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this barbaric activity, it starts with a pig that has been covered with lard. Ten to twenty kids would chase the pig inside a pen for ten minutes, which meant that ten to twenty kids would fall flat on their faces in the mud for ten minutes. Eventually, the pig would tire and some lucky kid would trap the pig in the corner of the pen and win an apple pie or something like that.

Surely PETA has outlawed this activity by now, right?

Even though I never won a greased pig contest, one might think these events would have prepared me for putting sunscreen on my children. No such luck.

Thankfully, Zoey realizes if she wants to go outside and play, she must wear sunscreen. Zed's a different story. Every once in awhile, we're able to put sunscreen on Zed while he's lying on the changing table. But I think he enjoys watching us chase him around the room, cursing and falling as we try to apply sunscreen as he slips from our grasp.

When we were at the beach earlier this year, in the middle of our third marathon sunscreen session of the day, Ella came up with a brilliant idea. You know those fake suntanning booths they have that spray you with "sun" that turns you all nice and orange? Imagine if there was a booth that covered you with sunscreen.

Or more importantly, your children.

You just step inside, don those tiny little eye thingies, and push a button. It's a Million Dollar Idea. I'm a cheap bastard and I would gladly pay $5 per kid each time they need to be lathered in sunscreen. Every beach, pool, and park would buy one of these machines. People would be lining up around the block just so they didn't have to deal with slippery little kids.

I'm just not smart enough to make such a contraption. If you can, go for it. Just do me a favor: call it the ChagMaster 3000 or something like that.

And if you feel like sending me a buck or fifty thousand, I won't stop you.

Song of the day: Down Together by The Refreshments

Body Image And The Kindergartener

The four of us went to the Children's Museum on Friday night to see a local children's musical act. Zoey ran into one of her old friends from The Little Gym and hung out with her the whole night. As we were getting ready to leave, Zoey asked me, "Daddy, do I have to wear my coat?"

She hates her winter coat. It comes down to just above her knees, so it limits her mobility. She cannot run very well when she wears the coat. She has trouble buckling herself into the car seat when she wears the coat. But Mommy and Daddy are mean, so we make her wear the coat.

"Yes. It's cold outside," I replied.

"Do I have to?" she asked again with enough whining, angst, and eye-rolling to put a sixteen-year-old to shame.

"Yes!"

She continued to pout as she put on her coat. The Little Gym girl's mother walked up to me and whispered, "My daughter hates to wear her winter coat, too. She says it makes her look fat."

I guess she saw my jaw hit the floor because she quickly added, "I don't know where she gets it from!"

I couldn't help myself. I was in total shock. I know lots of people have issues with their bodies; they're either too fat or too skinny. No one thinks he or she is "just right."

I just didn't realize it started in kindergarten.

As a result, I have decided to homeschool my children in a log cabin in Montana, free from television, the Internet, magazines, newspapers, and, most of all, other people.

Have a good life, everyone!

Song of the day: All The Kids Are Right by Local H

Little Bastards

I've been wondering why the kids have been sick for so long. Zed had pneumonia and RSV, and followed that with a double ear infection. Not to be outdone, Zoey tested positive for flu on Thursday. A little too much for one family, no?

I now know what they were trying to do: they were trying to get me sick. Mission accomplished! I am now the proud owner of a cough, a fever, aches, and all that fun stuff. Kids, if I had known you wanted to make me sick, I would've faked a few sniffles last week.

This was already going to be a rough and emotional week for us. I didn't need the flu on top of everything else.

Enough self-pity! Let's hear the song of the day!

Song of the day

Greg's back again today. Hope you enjoy his selection!

As I moved away from the suburbs of DC to go to college in Baltimore and then onto Los Angeles shortly after graduation, it began to occur to me that I should consider myself lucky to have seen many of the bands from DC's legendary punk scene. At the time, I just assumed every town had a thriving local music scene. But as I traveled, I met more and more people who grew up in the absence of a music scene and only got to see pictures of their favorite bands in zines. My love for music eventually led me to writing about it and as my budding music critic career took off, so did the careers of a lot of bands I had been exposed to in my teens. I started to freelance more and more and suddenly I had my name on the promo list of records labels. In the early 90s, Touch & Go's roster kicked so major ass. One day, a Pegboy promo came in the mail. I had heard of the band and probably saw the pre-Pegboy Naked Raygun at some point, but I had never heard Pegboy. Once again, what I saw with this band was the same as I saw with G.I. and Marginal Man: a bunch of everyday Joes up onstage dishing out their emotional, melodic punk rock. I lived on a steady diet of Pegboy in the early 90s. They always – and still do – struck a chord with me.

Song of the day: Superstar by Pegboy

The Tantrum Heard 'Round The Neighborhood

I was working in our office/guest bedroom/storage room when I heard the blood-curdling screams coming from downstairs.

I paused.

***

My daughter is a problem solver. While she still needs our help a good portion of the time, she will tackle many challenges alone. We admire and encourage her independence.

But that's not always a good thing.

***

"I'M NOT GOING TO SCHOOL TOMORROW!" I heard through the tears.

"I LOOK LIKE A BOY!"

Reluctantly, I decided to go downstairs to see what the fuss was about. I found Ella and Zoey standing in the bathroom, looking in the mirror. I looked at Zoey, whose once shoulder-length bangs were now less than an inch long.

I laughed.

She cried harder.

"What happened?" I asked.

"MOMMY CUT MY HAIR!" she sobbed.

"Let's tell Daddy why I cut your hair," Ella said.

"NO! I DON'T WANT TO!" Zoey screamed.

I went back upstairs. About thirty minutes later, Ella walked in the room and told me what had happened.

Zoey was reading a book and her hair kept falling in her face. So she got up, got a pair of scissors from the kitchen, and cut off all the hair that was hanging over her eyes.

See? Problem solver!

GHS: 1

Song of the day: Divine Thing by The Soup Dragons

The Foul Fives

On Saturday afternoon, Ella left town for a business trip. Because the kids couldn't wait to begin Quality Daddy Time with me, Zed woke up at 3:40 AM on Sunday morning, followed by Zoey kicking off the covers at 5:15 AM.

What healthy child wakes up at 3:40 AM and is bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to start the day? One that hates me.

I knew we were in for an awful day. Around 2:00 PM, Zoey turned into a monster. A very scary, very mean, very contrary monster. Every time I told her to do something, I was met with a resounding "NO!" I started toying around with the idea of driving to NYC to pay Ella a surprise visit.

Hell, even the "Santa is watching you" threats weren't working yesterday. I was fully expecting Zoey to reply, "Oh yeah? Tell Santa to suck it."

But we survived. No one killed anyone else. No one became dehydrated from crying too many tears. No one uttered the words, "I hate you."

But I can't be sure she didn't think those words.

But today, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and both kids are in school. And now I'm going to catch up on some sleep!

And Ella owes me a lot more than "a helping hand" when she gets back in town.

Song of the day: I Will Be Hating You For Christmas by Everclear

I Can't Hear You

Zed has a new trick.

Guess what he does whenever we try to get him to say a word, make a sound, or tell him what to do.

Go ahead, guess.

He sticks his fingers in his ears.

Oy!

GHS: 4

And Speaking Of Guessing

If you haven't entered my contest yet, give it a shot.

You know you want to.

Song of the day: List Of Demands (Reparations) by Saul Williams

And So It Begins

When Zoey started kindergarten this year, she decided to brown bag it. She told me, without ever setting foot in the cafeteria, that "the lunch line worried her." Perhaps she pictured herself taking forever to decide what she wanted to eat, causing all the other children to scream at her and tell her, "Hurry up!"

It's so nice to see all these neuroses I'm handing down to my children. Proud Papa!

After a few days, peer pressure reared its ugly head. She saw her friends buying lunch at school, so she wanted to do the same. She would bring her lunch only if the cafeteria was offering something really, really, really gross.

But everything changed two weeks ago; Zoey began buying lunch from the cafeteria less often. In the past week or so, she has only bought her lunch if the cafeteria was offering something really, really, really good.

To tell you the truth, I was somewhat relieved. It scares the hell out of me to think that she can get a meat, vegetables, fruit, and milk for $2.20.

But another part of me was concerned that there might be something more to this. So I finally confronted her this morning.

"Zoey, why don't you like to buy lunch at school anymore?"

"Because Jamaal likes my lunchbox. He thinks it's cool when I bring it school."

She's five. I'm scared to think of what she'll be doing to hold the boys' attention at ten, fifteen, or twenty.

GHS: 2

Song of the day: This Is Halloween from The Nightmare Before Christmas

My Life Has Become One Of Those Lame Slapsticky "Dad In Over His Head" Movies

When Zoey was twoish, we thought we had our hands full. She was a tomboy and did some crazy stuff. When I would hear the neighborhood moms talk about the wild things their boys had done, I would chime in with a "I know exactly what you're talking about. Zoey is just like having a boy." They would then laugh at me and call me names until I cried.

No wait. It was the middle school bullies that laughed at me and called me names until I cried. Those prepubescent girls can be real bitches.

The moms would just roll their eyes and say, "No. A girl is nowhere near as bad as a boy." I would often reply, "But you don't know how much of a tomboy Zoey is!"

Zed has since shown me the error of my ways. In the past two weeks, he has proven that one two-year-old boy can do more damage than twenty two-year-old girls. He cannot be left alone. Don't believe me? The following four incidents happened today:

The Dishwasher
Zed loves playing with his little cars and puzzles. But by a wide margin, his favorite toy is our dishwasher. When it is running, he likes to move the lever back and forth, turning the dishwasher off and on in the process. I'll tell him, "No" and he'll run off to another room and just wait until I leave the kitchen so he can sneak back in and start doing it again.

Apparently, turning it off and on has become a bit passé. After I finished straightening up the living room for the 432nd time this morning, I went into the kitchen and found the door to the dishwasher open. Zed was sitting beside it, splashing the water inside.

The Dishwasher Part II
I was on the phone with Ella when I heard loud noises coming from the kitchen. I ran into the kitchen and found the dishwasher door open yet again. Only this time, Zed was standing on the door. He was removing his sippy cups from inside the dishwasher and chucking them across the kitchen.

Luckily, I got to him before he had a chance to move on to the glassware or knives.

Another Mess
I was reading Zoey a book when we heard the a loud crash come from the dining room, followed by fourteen million little ping-ping-pings. Zed had found one of Zoey's bead sets (THAT ARE ONLY SUPPOSED TO BE IN HER BEDROOM! (but that's another story)), opened it, and poured it out onto the floor. I sent both kids to another room to play while I tried to find all the beads.

Slimed
While I was busy picking up the fourteen million microscopic beads that were scattered across the dining room floor, Zoey yelled, "Dad! Zed did a bad thing!"

"What did he do now?" I replied. At this point, nothing she could have said would have shocked me.

"He spilled my slime!"

Zoey went to a birthday party this past weekend where they got to make slime. Unfortunately, she was allowed to bring it home with her. Unfortunately, she left it on the kitchen table, easily within the reach of the Two-Foot Wrecking Ball.

I walked into the kitchen and saw some slimy liquid on the floor. "Oh," I said, somewhat relieved. "That's okay." And then I noticed the slime was hanging off the side of the kitchen table.

And off a wicker basket near the table.

And on the refrigerator.

And all over Zed's shirt, pants, shoes, and hands.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to drink myself to sleep. Tomorrow, I'll be heading to Babies "R" Us to purchase every boyproof (something stronger than childproof) lock I can find.

Or a cage.

GHS: 9

Song of the day: Someday by The Strokes

The Most Shocking Thing I Have Ever Seen

When we came home from picking up Zoey from school yesterday, I told her, "I'm going to run upstairs and do the laundry. We'll have snack and do your homework when I get back down. Keep an eye on your brother, please."

So I went upstairs, unloaded the dryer, put a new load in, and put another load in the washing machine. As I was walking down the steps, I heard what no parent ever wants to hear.

Silence.

I ran down the stairs. I could hear faint noises coming the kitchen, so I headed that way. When I got to the doorway, my jaw dropped as I took in the scene in front of me:

Zed was reading a book on the floor. Zoey was doing her homework at the kitchen table.

She had gotten her backpack, pulled out her homework, chosen a pencil, and had started her homework without me.

It won't be much longer until she doesn't need me anymore.

And Then There's The Boy

Any other time, I would've expected to walk into the kitchen to find the contents of all the drawers scattered all over the floor. Sometime during the past two weeks, Zed shed his toddler skin and became a two-year-old boy. He is into everything. He laughs at the childproof locks on the drawers. Why should he play with his maracas when he can grab two containers of sprinkles out of the drawer? They both make the same noise, but one is taboo and therefore much more fun.

He has also entered the "No" phase. While he doesn't say the word, he shakes his head at us when he doesn't want to do something. And even though he knows the sign for "More," he refuses to use it under most circumstances. We'll play a game and he'll want to play it again, but he will refuse to sign "More." Instead, he just gives me this look that says "I'm the boss and I'm cute. You'll give in before I do."

Of course, if it's something he really wants (like another piece of chocolate), he suddenly remembers the sign for "More." Bastard.

Song of the day: The Good Life by Weezer

Why I Could Never Run Away, Join The Circus, And Become A Contortionist

Zoey had her five-year checkup yesterday afternoon. We went through the normal drill: weight, height, eye exam, and all that jazz. Then the nurse threw us a curve ball: she needed a urine sample from Zoey. She told me to have Zoey sit on the toilet backwards while I held the cup beneath her.

Want to know how it played out? I stood Zed next to the toilet and pinned him against the wall with my knee. I used one hand to support Zoey and held the cup with the other hand. We were in and out in sixty seconds.

Ok. That's how it happened in my head. Want to know how it really played out?

I freaked out because I have a tendency to freak out in situations such as these. Zoey freaked out because her legs were too short to straddle the toilet backwards. She started squirming around and developed a case of "stage fright," probably feeding off of my stress.

The cup ended up in the toilet.

And where was Zed during all of this?

Playing in the urinal.

Fun day!

GHS: 6

Song of the day: Can't Take My Eyes Off You by Frankie Valli

Prick

Since today was the third day of Zoey's fever, I decided to take her to the pediatrician even though I knew what the outcome would be: "No other signs? It's viral. Give us a call in two days if she's not better. $25 copay, please."

Yet we still went.

Apparently every child in the county is sick because there were no empty seats in the waiting room. I have no idea what was ailing those kids, but I'll find out in seventy-two hours because Zed decided to lick the examination table before we left. Yum!

After the doctor examined Zoey, he gave me the diagnosis I had expected. And then he added, "We'll do a blood test to rule out anything else."

"Blood test?" I asked.

"Yes. A blood test."

Oh hell.

Unlike last month's splinter incident, I decided not to tell Zoey what she was in for. The nurse came in a few moments later.

"Zoey, I'm going to prick your finger. It won't hurt a bit," the nurse said.

"WHAT?" Zoey screamed as she turned to me.

"I'm going to prick your finger with th--"

And then the wailing started. Zoey started freaking out so the nurse had me hold her down with one arm while keeping her other arm straight. The nurse pricked her finger, grabbed the capillary tube, and explained to Zoey that she was drawing the blood with the tube.

After about fifteen seconds of less-than-optimal capillary action, the nurse said, "Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Could you ease up a bit? You're acting as a tourniquet." I then weakened the death grip I had on her arm and the blood sped up the tube. After we were done, Zoey was allowed to choose a plastic trinket from the prize chest. All was well.

On the way home, Zoey asked me, "How did they get the blood out of my finger?"

"They pricked your finger with a tiny needle."

"They did? I didn't feel a thing."

I'm sure she didn't. But her screams were heard from a mile away.

GHS: 6

Song of the day: Blood Makes Noise by Suzanne Vega

We Came THIS Close To Just Amputating The Damn Thing

Mr. Owl, how many adults does it take to remove a splinter from a four-year-old girl's finger?

Let's find out.

A one. A two. A three. CRUNCH (that's the sound of my head exploding).

A three.

Last night, Zoey got her first splinter. I have no idea how she made it almost five years without a splinter. But after what we went through the past twenty-four hours, I wish she had gone another five years.

I explained to Zoey what I was going to do. "First, I'm going to take a piece of ice and rub it all over your finger. Then I'm going to take a safety pin and set it on fire--"

And then all hell broke loose. I should have chosen my words more wisely. Or just omitted that last part.

So I tried reasoning with her. More hysterics.

I tried bribing her. More hysterics.

I tried threatening her. More hysterics.

I tried making up outlandish lies about fingers falling off while people sleep. More hysterics.

After an hour of this, I dabbed hydrogen peroxide on her finger and put her in bed.

My Mom came over this afternoon to eat dinner with us and spend some time with the kids. I told Zoey that my Mom used to be a nurse and she had plenty of experience removing splinters (she did raise two boys, after all).

More hysterics.

So when Ella came home from her business trip this evening (why does crap like this always happen when she's out of town?), we once again tried to reason with Zoey. When that failed to work, we decided to exercise our only remaining option: overpower her.

I put Zoey on my lap and held her arms against her chest. My Mom held Zoey's hand so she couldn't move it. And Ella F-I-N-A-L-L-Y removed the splinter.

I need a drink.

***

You know the ads I show on the right side of my site? Well the folks behind those ads would like you to fill out a survey. They want to know a little bit more about you so they can show you targeted ads.

Yeah, I know it's a pain in the ass. But the ads aren't going anywhere. And wouldn't you rather see an ad for something that might be of interest to you?

No? You're going to make me beg, aren't you?

Ok. Please fill out the survey.

What do you mean it didn't sound sincere enough?

Fine. Please oh please oh please fill out the survey. With sugar on top. And all that jazz. I'll be your best friend forever.

Thanks!

Song of the day: Drinkin' On The Job by The Rainmakers

Feelin' Frisky

About a week ago, we decided to take away Zed's pacifier. We didn't want the only child at the Senior Prom with a pimped-out binky stuck in his mouth.

But we didn't totally take his pacifier away; he's just not allowed to have one during waking hours. He gets it right before bedtime and naptime (next week, that comes to an end as well). Cold turkey is tough on junkies.

I keep an emergency pacifier in either my shirt pocket or my back pocket during the day. In case he falls, throws a fit, etc. and my singing won't soothe him, I have the pacifier as a backup plan. While I haven't had to use it yet, he knows it is there.

And therein lies the problem.

He knows it is there. And every once in a while, he'll want it. And he goes searching for it.

He'll start patting me down, feeling my shirt pocket. If there's nothing there, he'll move on to the pockets of my pants. It's like I'm being frisked before heading off to jail.

But sometimes he gets a little too overzealous during his search. He'll start pinching instead of merely patting me down. And sometimes he pinches, um, something he shouldn't. I'll be standing around and he'll run up to me and pinch me there. Then I'm the one in need of a pacifier.

I need to nip this in the bud before he nips me to a nub.

And because I've had this damn song stuck in my head all day, I thought it was only polite to return the favor:

Song of the day: Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne

Thank God I Didn't Buy Her Edible Underwear Instead

Because I am a cheap bastard and Ella digs homemade gifts, Zoey made a Cheerios necklace for Ella for Valentine's Day. Ella has worn it with great pride several times this past week.

Last night we went to Zed's favorite pizza place for his birthday. Because Zoey was tired of hearing "birthday boy" nonstop for the previous forty-eight hours, she ordered asked Ella to wear the Cheerios necklace to the restaurant.

We had a pleasant meal: no tantrums, no spilling of drinks, and no throwing of food. I don't think the other patrons even knew we were there.

Until we were readying to leave, that is.

Ella lifted Zed from his highchair. She held him in her arms while l helped Zoey load all her necessities (crayons, coloring books, ponies, etc.) back into the diaper bag.

And then Zoey froze. I didn't know what was going on. She pointed at Zed and started screaming, "ZED'S EATING YOUR NECKLACE MOMMY!!!"

And that's when all hell broke loose.

Song of the day: King Of Beers by Too Much Joy

A Fourteen-Year-Old Girl Trapped In The Body Of A Preschooler

There's no nice way to put this, so I'll just come right out and say it: my daughter is a Prima Fucking Donna.

Zoey's a clothes hound. I don't know where she gets it. When I need new clothes, I go Goodwill hunting. Ella, while not nearly as thrifty as I am, doesn't spend an inordinate amount on clothes.

Zoey is obsessed with dresses. And during Christmas break she was able to wear dresses every day because someone was always sick so we didn't really go anywhere (poor Zed is still battling a double-ear infection). But now, even though it's thirty degrees outside, she expects to wear a dress to preschool every morning.

Not happening. Not on my watch. We've tried to compromise by introducing leggings. But there are only a few pairs that she deems worthy to touch her skin.

Yesterday, things came to a head. She wore a dress and a pair of leggings on her first day back at preschool. But the leggings didn't have feet attached to them so she had to wear socks as well. Apparently, this is a fashion no-no as she screamed, "I DON'T LOOK VERY PRETTY!" as we made our way to the car. When she got from school, she begged me to let her take off her leggings. I've been dealing with a major sinus infection and didn't feel like arguing with her all afternoon, so I gave in (I know. Big mistake. I suck.). Later that afternoon, we needed to go to Target. So I told her to put her leggings back on.

And that's when the fireworks started. During her forty-five minute crying/screaming tantrum that landed her in timeout several times, I called Ella and said, "I'm burning all her dresses. Every last one."

I have since come to my senses. I can't just burn something my daughter loves just because she won't do what I want . So instead, I packed them all away and created a Springtime Advent Calendar. Every morning, she gets to mark off a spot on the calendar. And every day, she gets closer to the magical date of April 1st, the day she is allowed to wear dresses once again.

GHS: 8

Song of the day: Supermodel by Jill Sobule

Further Proof My Children Would Be Better Off If They Were Raised By Wolves

Winter came to our neck of the woods last week. And while it only hung around for thirty-six hours, it was long enough to cause major drama in our household.

I loaded the kids into the car to take Zoey to preschool. As usual, we were running late. As I was filling the car with gas, I thought to myself, Damn! It's cold today! I looked at Zoey. She should probably be wearing a hat.

And gloves.

And a heavier jacket.

I suck (Admission: The Weather Channel, weather forecasts, and the like do not exist in my world. I hardly ever check the weather forecast. As a result, I am often dressed improperly for the weather. And so are my kids.).

Since we were about seven miles from home and school started in five minutes, I began rummaging through the car looking for warm clothing for my daughter. I found one pink mitten, but unless she was going to pull a Michael Jackson, it wouldn't have been much use. I found a pair of Ella's gloves and tried to talk Zoey into wearing them, but they were way too big. Damn!

I got back into the car, arguing with myself the whole way to preschool.

She'll be ok. It's not that cold.

Are you insane? It's thirty degrees outside!

She'll never wear a hat anyway. It'll mess up her hair.

But she needs a hat!

And so on and so forth. You don't need friends when you've got several voices inside your head to keep you company.

Anyway...

I pulled into the parking lot at Zoey's preschool. I started looking through the trunk once again (Admission: My automobile looks like someone lives in it, so it wasn't outside the realm of possibility to find a hat in there. Or a pair of gloves. Or human remains.). Finally, I found a hat!

Unfortunately, it was Zed's hat. It was blue (a big turnoff to Ms. Pink) with blue spikes coming out of the top (another turnoff). And of course, it was too small. Did this stop me from trying to force it on her head? HELL NO!

Amidst the tears, the screaming, and the struggling, I tried to make it fit her head. Despite the fact that it didn't even come down to her ears, a very small part of me thought that it would suffice, if just for that day. But I knew deep down she needed a hat that fit. So we went shopping!

I stopped at a drugstore (Yeah, I know. Shut up! Desperate times, people!). "Do you have hats for big people?" Because in a crisis, I lose the ability to communicate with others.

"Um, no." the clerk replied.

"How about hats for little people?"

"Kids?"

"Yes!"

"No."

"Do you know anywhere that might?"

"Family Dollar."

"Cool!"

I loaded the kids back in the car. Zed was screaming at this point because he's not too fond of the whole in-out-in-out car shuffle without having a chance to walk around somewhere. Tires screeching, we pulled into Family Dollar.

When Zoey came out of the car, she hit her head on the door and began crying. Zed started crying again because I wouldn't let him walk into the store. We went up to the register. "Do you have hats for kids?" See, I can learn from my mistakes!

"Sure."

"Um, where are they?"

"All over the store. You just have to look."

"Thanks. Is there one location that I might find more hats than in other locations?" Twenty seconds into the conversation and I was already tired of dealing with this bitch.

"No. You just have to look."

So I aimlessly wandered the store until I found the clothing section (where we found many, many, MANY hats!). I found a perfect little pink toboggan (for my Canadian readers: a toboggan is a knit cap) for Zoey. Since she needed to try it on, I put Zed on the floor. Of course, he took off like a bat out of hell. I chased him down, brought him back, and tried putting the toboggan on Zoey's head with one hand.

Guess what? Can't be done. Try it yourself.

So I had to put Zed back on the floor and he proceeded to run away once again. My children had stopped crying but I was ready to do enough crying for the three of us.

I brought Zed back to the hat display. I held him with my legs and put the toboggan on Zoey's head. Perfect fit! We walked back to the register.

"Will this be all?"

"Yes."

"You know, your boy really needs a hat too."

"Sorry, we can only afford one hat this week. Hopefully next time." If people are going to say bitchy, finger-wagging things to you, the least you can do is make up a lie and make them feel like crap.

I paid for the hat, put the kids in the car, and pulled into the school just as they were closing the gate (you're allowed to drop your kid off fifteen minutes after school begins). Success! Zed and I went home and had a beer, both of us severely stressed out from that morning's events.

When I picked Zoey up from school that afternoon, I learned that Zoey's teachers didn't even make her wear the damn hat when she went outside for recess. Figures.

GHS: 6

Down On The Farm

Despite the fact that there are those of you who think I look like a rapist, a drug dealer, someone posing for a mug shot, Charles Manson, or, even worse, Robert Downey Jr., I was allowed to be a chaperone on my daughter's preschool field trip. So bite me.

Yesterday, we headed off to E. coli Happy Times Farm and Petting Zoo. The teachers put me in the same minivan as the Wild Boys, hoping that they would listen to me because I was a guy. As if. I was not an authority figure in these children's eyes. I was not their parents. I was not their teachers. I was a glorified substitute teacher. And even four-year-olds know you're supposed to torture substitutes. It wouldn't have mattered if I was male, female, or somewhere in between, they wouldn't have listened to me. And they didn't.

Armed with empty threats and a 55-gallon drum of Purell, we ventured into the farm. The kids had a great time. They were able to pet cows, pigs, horses, goats, turtles, sheep, llamas, and donkeys. They were also able to see ostriches, emus, chickens, and a camel. But I learned something yesterday.

Four-year-olds? Have no survival skills whatsoever.

If we were like other creatures and set our offspring into the wild after a few months (or even a few years), we would be extinct. I watched countless children try to feed their fingers to horses instead of petting them on top of their noses.

I saw a small boy charge at a fenced ostrich (at least he wasn't a total moron; the ostrich was a baby so it was about his size). The ostrich saw him and went charging at him. I was halfway across the field, so all I could do was think, "Here comes an ER trip." But luckily, a mom came in and swooped up the boy before a fight broke out.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to teach Zoey some survival skills. You'd think having a little brother would teach her to keep her fingers away from animals' mouths. No such luck.

Lights Out (Where Our Hero Proves Once Again His Family Would Be Better Off If He Was In A Padded Room Somewhere Far Away)

On Saturday night, we were performing our pre-bedtime routine at the Cynical Dad household. We were enjoying quiet time: Zoey and Ella were coloring while Zed and I played with blocks. It had been storming for quite some time. Ella looked outside and immediately turned into Chicken Little. "Oh my God," she screamed. "It looks awful out there! Turn on the Weather Channel! I think a tornado's coming!"

I looked outside and things did look bad. Hail. Sideways rain. Lots of lightning. The darkest clouds I had ever seen. I ran into the other room to turn on the television. Just as I got about two feet away from the television, BOOM! No more power.

Ella went into full-blown survival mode. She gathered the kids and ran into the hallway. I called my Mom to learn what the television meteorologists were saying about the storm. "Severe thunderstorm warning. Damaging winds, hail, and lightning." But no tornado.

Since we were not in any immediate danger, I started searching for emergency supplies. I managed to scrounge up two candles and a lighter. Ella took one candle and rocked Zed to sleep while I read Zoey bedtime stories by candlelight.

You know the chestnut about Abraham Lincoln reading by candlelight as a kid? Total bullshit. Cannot be done.

After we put the kids to bed, Ella was not feeling well so she went to bed as well. I started looking for a flashlight. I managed to make it downstairs to the pantry where I found our only flashlight. It didn't work. I opened the flashlight to remove the batteries and felt the cool, refreshing battery acid cover my hand.

While I was washing the battery acid off my hand, I heard a beep. I assumed since we lost power, our security system was malfunctioning. I went to investigate, but that wasn't the problem. I fumbled through the house, trying to locate the source of the annoying beep. I discovered it was coming from the carbon monoxide detector in Zed's room.

I am usually a fairly rational and sane person. But there is a side to my psyche that is insane and irrational and full of negative thoughts. When this side rears its ugly head, it is so powerful that it overwhelms my logical side.

Zed has a carbon monoxide detector that plugs into the wall. It has a battery inside that serves as a backup in case the power goes out. I knew the battery inside the detector was dead and the unit was alerting me to this fact. But my irrational side said, "No. Your house is filling up with carbon monoxide from those two candles. You'll all be dead by dawn."

So I searched the house for any source of light. I found Zoey's working Elmo flashlight, blew out the candles, and headed back to Zed's bedroom. I remembered that miners would take canaries into the shaft with them to warn them of carbon monoxide, so I deduced Zed would be the first affected from the deadly carbon monoxide rapidly filling our house from two tiny candles.

So I lied on the floor next to Zed's crib for the rest of the evening, entertaining myself with Sudoku puzzles and by making shadow puppets on the wall by the light of Zoey's Elmo flashlight. But since this flashlight was made for kids, it would begin to dim after fifteen seconds before finally going dark after forty-five seconds. So I had to constantly press the button to keep the flashlight working.

I think I finally passed out from a mixture of fear and stress at 2:00 AM.

***

This post was entered in December's Blogging For Books competition.

Channeling Samuel L.

My daughter has developed a rather annoying habit lately. When I ask her to do something, she'll reply, "What?"

I know she hears me. I know she understands me. But rather than turn her attention from her toys or art or television, she'll just say "What?" without even looking at me. Drives me absolutely crazy.

And yesterday, I finally snapped.

We needed to go to the grocery store. I was changing Zed's diaper.

Me: Put your shoes on.
Zoey: What?
Me: Put your shoes on!
Zoey: What?
Me: Does your Daddy look like a moron?

She looked at me, puzzled, probably afraid to tell me how she really felt.

Me: What room you in?
Zoey: What?
Me: What ain't no room I know. Do they speak English in What?
Zoey: What?
Me: English! Zoey! DO YOU SPEAK IT?
Zoey: Yes.
Me: Then you understand what I'm saying?
Zoey: Yes.
Me: Now tell me if you think your Daddy looks like a moron.
Zoey: What?

At this point, I got really upset. I put Zed on the floor and got right in Zoey's face.

Me: Say What again! C'mon, say What again! I dare ya. I double dare ya, Zoey! Say What one more time!

She was speechless.

Me: Now describe what Daddy looks like.
Zoey: Well... you have brown hair.
Me: Go on!
Zoey: And you've got a goatee.
Me: Do I look like a moron?
Zoey: What?

I picked her up and put her in her timeout chair. As usual, she started crying.

Me: DO I LOOK LIKE A MORON, ZOEY!!!
Zoey: No.
Me: Then why did you pretend you didn't hear me?
Zoey: I didn't.
Me: Yes, you did, Zoey. You pretended not to hear me. You ever read the Bible, Zoey?
Zoey: At school. In the room we take food for people who don't have food.
Me: There's a passage I got memorized, seems appropriate for this situation: Proverbs 23:13. "Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you punish him with the rod, he will not die. Punish him with the rod and save his soul from death."

I must've blacked out because I don't remember what happened next. I can tell you we had a pleasant grocery store experience. However, when I went to pay for our groceries, the words Bad MotherFucker were embroidered on my wallet.

Crazy.

Ultimate Toddler Fighting Championship

I love my television. In fact, my TV was the best man at our wedding (ok, that's an exaggeration, but our TiVo was the flower girl). We are a television household. I know some of you do not allow your children to watch television. That's cool. I believe you have to do what's right for your family and to hell with everyone else. It just so happens that television is right for our family.

Or at least it used to be. I am beginning to see why some parents do not expose their children to television.

Ella leaves town for business once or twice a month. And since I have yet to figure out how to clone myself, it is impossible to put both kids to bed at the same time. So I park Zoey in front of the television, put Zed to bed, and then read Zoey a few books and put her to bed.

The other week I bought Zoey the Disney Princess Sing Along Songs: Perfectly Princess Volume Three DVD for such occasions. It's nothing but songs from Disney classics such as Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs and direct-to-video fare like The Little Mermaid II: Return To The Sea. Pretty harmless, right?

Wrong.

On the DVD, there's a song, Lesson Number One, from Mulan II. During the singing and merry-making, Mulan teaches a group of little girls how to fight. How to kick. How to karate chop. How to say "hi-yah!"

Three guesses who else has suddenly learned to fight, kick, karate chop, and say "hi-yah!" Bingo!

Whenever she gets pissed at me (which, truthfully, seems to be quite often lately; she's exploring her limits), she scrunches up her nose and karate chops the air a few times, yelling "HI-YAH!" Now I know this is toddlerspeak for "Bite me, asshole." But as long as she's not actually making contact with anyone, it's ok (actually, I can't help but laugh every time she does it. I suck.). No harm, no foul, you know?

But I also realize that it's just a matter of time before she does make contact, be it a chop to my stomach or a testicle-shattering kick worthy of America's Funniest Home Videos. So what do I do?

Do I put an end to it N-O-W? Tell her it's not ok to even pretend to hit someone? That sounds kind of stupid. Plus, I'm not one to stifle creativity.

Or do I let her train for a month and schedule a Toddler Cage Match with The Voice and all other takers?

I need answers, people. While I still have my testicles.

GHS: 7

Related:
Fight Club Junior