We were trying to get out the door, and Arlo was one shoe short of a pair. In these situations, I wander aimlessly, often looking in ridiculous places so that perhaps I might heroically discover a missing mitten in the back of the freezer. It’s never worked. Lindsay always finds the missing item because her goal[…]
Sometimes when our matriarch grows weary of repeating herself, she makes a sign. That way, it’s impossible for us to misunderstand her intentions. Here are some of my favorites. Feel free to use them on your own husband, wife, lover, partner, child, dog, ferret, etc. #1 Despite many friendly requests for me to stop, I[…]
I don’t remember the exact order, but I seem to recall that “moving” is right next to “spontaneous combustion of one’s hair” on the list of life’s most stressful events. At least when your hair is engulfed in flames, there’s a quick and easy fix, and even if you can’t find a bucket of water,[…]
The beauty of domestic bliss is that it’s so elusive. Our family is usually at its most dysfunctional when all four of us are together. My wife and I try to discuss important “grown-up stuff,” which the kids react to as if it were a level-4 biohazard that can only be neutralized via obnoxious singing and fights over crackers.[…]
Yesterday, after returning from a five day long trip which required leaving my wife at home with both kids, I took a nap. Now before you call the police, I want you to know it was an accident. There was no premeditation involved, so at worst I’m guilty only of involuntary napping. I fell asleep[…]
After feeding, comforting, dressing, teaching, entertaining, and loving our children, the remaining 30% of parenting is basically trying not to say the f-word in front of them. When they’re babies, it’s fine, blast away if you want. But as anyone knows, when they get older, children have a knack for repeating things, and when given the choice between “Oh my Golly” and “Holy Fu*king Sh*t”, they’ll always choose to yell the latter in front of the new neighbors.
The four of us flew to California to visit my parents for the week. Unfortunately, Lindsay has a head cold which she contracted because Arlo likes to give her sloppy kisses followed by brazen hacks that launch glistening clouds of phlegm into the back of her throat. The boy feels just fine, and is totally himself, but has that lingering toddler hack. If he gets to laughing really hard, or breathing heavily, he breaks into a chunky spell that makes one wonder whether a thousand-year old Rabbi just climbed two flights of stairs or perhaps a Thanksgiving witch is percolating gravy in an adjacent apartment. It’s jarring until you see that every child his age has a similar hack this time of year.
It’s either day 6 or 7. I can’t remember. After a while, the days without routine and electricity blend together into a foggy-headed smoothie that tastes like the middle of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” sounds. We’re all walking around with grim heavy-metal faces, but all feel confused and awkward, like maybe we accidentally ate some Percocet dusted catnip.
If you’re interested in seeing my family at its absolute worst, I recommend getting in a car with us for five minutes. Before we even start the ignition, there’s usually a heated kid-dispute over the rights to their identical car seats. The first child to arrive chooses his seat and then, when the second child is[…]
Every now and then, our matriarch sits on the front steps, staring into space holding a butterfly knife and a half-empty bottle of Old Crow bourbon. I mean that metaphorically, even though it accurately characterizes her mental well being. “I need a frickin’ [she doesn’t curse anymore] day off! I’m going to get a massage,[…]