She awakens: “Mommy? Mommy?”

I go in and she starts screaming and convulsing on the bed like Santa was replaced with Jeremy Piven. Good morning to you too. Eventually my wife gets her settled and goes back to bed (we got back from England last night so jet lag brings this whole ordeal to 4:30 AM). I’ll nap later.

1- “I wanna go downstairs wif you.” Done.

2- “I want oatmeal with dinosaurs.” Done. This whole time Duncan is whining because he’s all frazzled with the time change and he wants everything she’s having. No problem.

3- “I wanna go in the basement.” Done.

4- “I wanna watch a TV show.” No. “Why?” TV’s bad for you. “Why is it bad for you.” Well it is in this case it’s because you’re using it as a crutch due to a lack of imagination. Do you want to have a debate about it? Wanna go on fucking Charlie Rose and debate it? (I’m not saying this of course. Just mentally blogging it.)

5- “I wanna go potty.” Fine. Knock yourself out. This will be about the 500th time you’ve gone potty. What would you like me to do, warm the fucking toilet seat with my huge tits?

6- “I wanna candy.” Er, all right. You’ve been going potty so long I’m not sure using the toilet deserves a candy. All I get when I go potty is a painful reminder of my hemorrhoids. Anyway, yeah, I’ll carry Duncan back up stairs with you to get a candy (he’d freak out if we left him here alone).

7-“I wanna Go Yogurt.” We don’t have any. How about a yogurt drink?

8- “I want juice.” Fine. Done. Then she starts crying because she misjudged the depth of the cup and spilled a few drops on her dress. Oh yeah, I forgot one: “I wanna butterfly dress.” So I got that and help her put it on.

9- “I wanna go snuggle with mommy.” OK but she’s sleeping and that means you have to go to sleep. She starts to go upstairs. “I don’t wanna go to sleep.” OK unlock the baby gate again so you can come back to the living room.

10- “I wanna sit on the couch and have milk.” OK. So I get the milk but she doesn’t like the cup it’s in and has decided some basket full of blankets is a better place to sit. I offer her the milk there and she looks at me like I’m out of my mind – which I’m about to be. Oh yeah, I forgot the part where she found a present left for Duncan by Trevor and Stacey so she plays with it, doesn’t let him try and gets bored of it immediately.

My wife comes down and I’m about to snap. Now she thinks I’m an asshole that can’t handle the kids. I tell her, “She said she wants her butterfly dress and I got it down for her but then she spilled apple juice on it which she had barely one sip of and we’ve been upstairs and downstairs about 20 times and she said she wanted milk on the couch but she sat in that basket instead and didn’t even want the milk and she stole Duncan’s toy and I don’t even know where it is now.” My wife rolls her eyes. “And the worst part,” I add “Is that I have a ton of shit to do from being away for so long. I have all these emails and I’m trying to get through them under the worst work conditions – ever.”

Now she’s finally got the kids and I can get down to work. Here goes. Ahem.

She awakens: “Mommy? Mommy?”

I go in and she starts screaming and convulsing on the bed like Santa was replaced with Jeremy Piven. Good morning to you too…



  1. ty Says:

    “Now she thinks I’m an asshole that can’t handle the kids.”

    See? Now you’ve hit the eternal nail on the proverbial head. WE (most of us FATHERS) can handle the kids just fine. In fact, America would have kid’s asses in order like Germany circa 1940 if the wives didn’t fucking coddle the motherfuckers like they were precious and unique works of art that spilled from their uteruses or uteri. Why not just put the little royals on ermine thrones, moms? I fucking swear.

    Kids, being particularly fucking increasingly more and more (redundant, I know) intelligent every generational cycle, can sense the difference between the John Birch Daddys and the everything-is-special-and-perfect-just-for-YOU mommy societies. They fucking play mom and dads everywhere like Mario Cart on DS.

    So when just when we have everything locked-up tight and “handled” along comes the “I Voted 4 Obama” Mom to close our sofa cushion Gitmo isolation behavior pens.

    But…but…it was quiet!

    Now the TeeVee is blaring with that hypecehpallic “Dora” and the kids are eating on a 100 year-old rug that cost like $7k that you got BEFORE you decided to capitulate to the wife’s ticking time bomb of a womb clock.

    Good morning.

  2. dooflop Says:

    Yeah, like I said, you’re all exhausted from the trip… Traveling with babies is a bad idea to begin with. Unless you have the most unflippable kids, you’ll have to wait until they are 3 years old, or go through hell.

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