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Rock and Rock High School
I’m one of those rare suburbanites that you will never hear nor read, bash teachers. My dream job, other than published author, is to teach English composition and reaching skills to grade school children.
My kids stay annoyed at me because I ask them for details of their school day. Usually I’m met with “I don’t know, stuff, whatever” but I still ask. My teenager will let me know about tests or difficult assignments or teachers with whom has issues. My two younger ones, aged eight and seven, give me as few nuggets of information as will get them a juice or a chance to watch television.
My seven-year-old, known in this blog as The Goose, is my favorite child to question. When we’re in the car she’ll drop various bombs like “you know, dad, we should really recycle, it saves the Earth” or “Did you know you eat horribly, dad, and if you want to live longer you should diet and exercise more”. She’s very blonde, very blue-eyed, and so cute, that this stuff rolls off my back like an Olympic breaststroking duck.
It sometimes bugs me that she takes everything her first grade teachers say as gospel. The words of her mother and I often fall on deaf ears but if someone at her school tells her something, it’s gold. I appreciate her school but I’d like for them to help her mother and I out, some. I’m offering some ideas for them to drop on my daughter, and if my eight-year-old and teenager’s teachers are reading, their minds, as well.
1) Cleaning your room, spotless, where mommy and daddy can eat off the floor, will save ALL of the planets. I’ve never invited any of you to my house and the reason, is because my three girls’ rooms often look like the aftermaths of Taylor Swift and Big Time Rush poster tornados and dirty clothes hurricanes. Listen, public school teachers, put room organization on your agendas.
2) When your parents make you dinner or take you out to eat, it IS NOT optional as to whether you devour the food. My youngest kids think mealtime at home is open mike night at the Apollo meets merger and aquisitions negotiations on Wall Street. No, fools, eat your food. And stop asking for snacks two minutes into dinner. For my sixteen-year-old daughter I would like for her high school to offer a Home Ec class where she learns that while eating out, ordering the most expensive thing on the menu and eating half of it IS NOT OKAY. Dad’s wallet is light these days, kid.
3) Going green is great AT HOME TOO. The amount of waste in water, toilet paper, garbage, and other various odds and ends at our house is pretty alarming. Listen, could I take two minutes off my showers and conserve on the terlet paperz too, yes. But you should see these girls. They talk about their Earth Day type studies from their school then come home and make our footprint the size of a New Jersey landfill. Don’t get me started on televisions left turned on while they go outside or run upstairs to talk to their friends on the phone. Oh, and that basement light that I have to turn off everynight at 10pm because they always forget? Yeah, get on that kids’ schools.
4) Why there isn’t an economics class that’s mandatory for all children starting at the age of five is beyond me. But I think those moments in stores when out kids start saying “I want that” or “Can you by this” or “I saw this on tv, can I get it” can be brainwashed out of them? Come on schools, help me teach these kids the value of a dollar. If you tell it to them, then my job at home becames cake.
5) There needs to be a rock and roll 101/music appreciation class for the good music we, as parents, know and love. I’m fighting the good fight at home trying to shove The Clash and The Ramones and Radiohead down my children’s throats but imagine if the school opened their days with Imagine by John Lennon? Our kids generation would be so much better than us. This needs to happen at the high school level. My teenager’s Taylor Swift obesession has got to end. Making her know who the New York Dolls were is a great start. T.Rex class starts at 9:30am
Feel free to add your own classes or trades the schools could indoctrinate into our children. We’re all in this together, parents. Neurotic, over-tired fist bump from me.
Today’s song had to happen. I haven’t played the Ramones in months. Here’s Rock and Roll High School. Break something and dance.
Hit it Marky!
Extraordinary
So, tell me, do you love yourself? Six years ago, this week, I sat on a therapist’s couch (yes, she really had a couch) and asked me that question. I couldn’t answer. Frozen by brutal, soul crushing truth that I hated who and what I was, at that time in my life. She talked to me some more, recommended books to read, and told me to write love letter to myself. It all seemed stupid. Not intellectually, but it seemed ridiculous because I was ill-equipped to even try.
Years have gone by and I’ve deconstructed that sad fool who sat on a really comfortable sofa asnwering nosey queries. Now, I try to extend the knowledge I’ve acquired through experience to my wife and three daughters. I tell them every day how beautiful, talented, and special they are and can be. I know the cynics (I used to be one so, go screw yourself, I know the secret handshake, jackass) reading this will say I’m setting my kids up for failure. This is a cruel, hard world that will slap them in the face if they walk around with so much sunshine blown into their behinds. Maybe. But at least they won’t have to fight the devils of each day doubting themselves and wondering if they’re loved.
If you haven’t been keeping up with the villains of the internet, let me introduce you to British journalist, Samantha Brick.
Samantha’s basic tenet is her life is really friggin hard because she’s so beautiful, women hate her, men don’t take her seriously, and she’s unapologetic because her dad told her how awesome she was growing up.
The first column she wrote, about two weeks ago, I reacted the same way you just did. “What a delusional, arrogant, snotty little twit.”
This latest column, discussing how her father’s great love bestowed on her gave her this abundance of self-confidence, makes me kind of dig her point of view.
Sam Brick is about my age, early 40s, and I’m a bit envious of her chest thumping. I don’t take compliments well. I think I’m below average looking. I wonder, despite my wife being completely great to me, if I’m good enough to hang with her.
Miss Brick has a point. Maybe if parents, especially fathers, said and did the things women need to hear growing up and later as adults, we wouldn’t have as many eating disorders, suicides, and plastic surgeons wouldn’t ever do another boobie job again? Strip clubs would close down tomorrow and “daddy issues” would become a a great ironic all-girl punk rock band name instead of the reason young girls get on a pole.
Everytime I hear the great Liz Phair’s Extraordinary, I want to implant the tune in my three daughters ears, especially my teenager, and tell them to never stop listening. As many female readers and writing friends as I’ve gathered over the past two years, I say, from the bottom of my robot heart, you’re extraordinary, too. Really, turn this song up, and listen to what Liz, Samantha and I are saying. You’re extraordinary.
The Fly
Living with four women, the cacophony of screams is my cue. I grab a shoe or rolled up magazine and play my soap opera role. I’m the exterminator of insects, not much more.
****blogger’s note****
This is my weekend writing exercise courtesy of Trifecta Writing Challenge http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/ Today, I was given three words cacophonym soap, and insects and told to use them in order. I went personal again. I’m the fly, cockroach, beetle, and other bug killer in my house of a wife and three daughters. There aren’t a lot of cool songs about this subject. U2′s The Fly played in my head while I wrote this at the breakfast table with my daughters.
Enjoy:
Fight For Your Right
I always knock before I walk into my sixteen-year-old daughter’s bedroom. Gender issues aside, I remember how my parents never allowed that courtesy, because, it was their roof and their rules, damn it. So, I got what I deserved when I entered a few days ago.
My sixteen-year-old daughter and I share a love of music, different types mind you, so we’re both usually wearing ear buds while singing or dancing to our favorite songs. Like her, I will play tunes on my computer, my iPod, or in the car and lose myself in the lyrics or guitar riffs. When the music is from my time as a teenager, memories will flood and I’ll become familiar with that time in my life I first heard the song or what was going on around me.
The door knob to my daughter’s room is always ice cold. I’m usually carrying towels or trash or cups so I dread the touch of the knob. When I see the door isn’t closed all the way I breathe easier. After I knocked twice, it occurred to me she had to be asleep or listening to her iPod. I ignored this realization and acted like a lame parent. I bumped open the door with a butt cheek and there she was, dancing and singing and enjoying whatever her ear buds were offering. Her look of surprise and disdain transported me.
Rainy days as a kid meant I had to stay inside. Sometimes friends came over, but since my house was almost a mile away from most of my pals, it meant I would be alone in my room. I don’t recall the edict, but I wasn’t allowed to lock my door. I don’t know if my parents thought I was taking the movie Scarface too seriously and running a cocaine ring out of my place or if they were jealous of my record and cassette collection but that was their mandate. When I was channeling my inner Diamond David Lee Roth or perfecting my air Jimmy Page, I’d go into my closet. Go ahead, make your jokes. Done?
The closet was tiny. My three daughters’ closets are of similar size to the one I performed in, so they don’t hang out in them. They just shove their junk in and go lock their velvet-roped bedroom doors. But my closet had to be a dancefloor, rock and roll stage, and an awards podium. My lame parents caught me, deep in fantasy, wonder and The Beastie Boys Licensed To Ill. My glares were dagger-filled.
I wanted to hug my daughter and tell her I was sorry. I knew how embarrassed and angry she felt to have me interrupt her Taylor Swift dance party. I cared about her stabby glower. It made me think long and hard about the kind of parent I really am versus the one I seem to not be. I’m lame and I need to yell over the knock. The immediate future of my oldest daughter’s life will be amazing for her imagination. Every teenager deserves their bedroom inner sanctum of fantasy, wonder and make-believe superstardom.
****blogger’s note****
This is a personal post designed for Write On Edge’s RememebeRED memoir:
After I finished laughing, I started thinking. So often in our lives, defining moments occur when our past and our present or our future clash. For this week’s RemembeRED prompt, write a memoir post describing such a time and the results.
While writing, remember to bring us into the moment and let us experience it with you.
I’m going to be generous and give you 521 words.
Today’s song is what was playing in my bedroom, a lot, at age sixteen. My mom never took away my best prono mag but From’s The Beastie Boys’s 1986 debut album Licensed to Ill, here’s (You’ve Got To) Fight For Right (To Party)
Brokenhearted
It’s happened. For the past four years, I’ve swam against the tide. Yesterday I felt myself drowning in the waves of reality. I’m a grown-up.
I try very hard to relate to my three daughters. I don’t immediately think their tastes and styles are dumb or odd. They are, but I always give them the benefit of the doubt. When I’m in the car with them I let them listen to their own music. This means the three major pop stations in Atlanta get plenty of work while we’re driving. Every once in a while one of their songs will bleed through my music snobbery thickened ear drums and I’ll think, “hmmm this isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” I’ve played Moves Like Jagger and Stereo Hearts in blog posts. My teenage daughter and I have a weird mutual admiration of Maroon 5, although Adam Levine’s twitter account dooshery has made me rethink my participation. But yesterday I realized my machinations have been for naught. I’m older. They’re younger. It’s time to give up the dream.
A few days ago, my sixteen-year-old was in a bad mood. I called it Thursday. In trying to cheer her up, I actually said.
“Baby, what do you think of Karmin’s Brokenhearted? That guitar riff’s decent and I don’t want to punch the radio when it comes on..”
Her blue eyes sparkled, her mouth formed what might look like a smile if the Mona Lisa was being tickled, and she caught herself agreeing with me.
“Ummm, yeah, well, maybe. It’s okay I guess. I gotta go upstairs.”
I claimed victory and threw out my shoulder patting myself on the back. I even went as far as tweeting and the facebooking the song, asking my alleged friends and followers if it was okay to like the song. The resounding response was “you’re trying too hard, fool.” I didn’t heed the advice.
Yesterday, while driving with my teenager and my wife, a song came on the radio and I didn’t recognize anyone involved. The DJ said “here’s David Guetta with, (the name of the song).” Then a woman’s voice “sang” the first “verse”. The music was terrible. The voice was female. It didn’t sound like a David, and I’m very open minded. I asked my wife.
“Who is this? The voice sounds female and vaguely familiar.”
My wife was equally clueless and my teenager, exasperated, announced.
“The DJ in the song is David Guetta. The singer is Nicki Minaj. The DJ does all the work so he gets credit.”
I was “this close” to telling my kid how dumb that sounded. A DJ being credited with the song. Minaj was singing, all he did was turn tables and push buttons! Then it hit me. This is her time. This is her music. David Guetta, Nicky Minaj and Karmin are her Prince, Madonna, and Def Leppard (the artists on the radio when I was sixteen).
This sobering experience produced a mourning time for me. This will take a while to get over. I’m not cool. I’m not hip. I’m not going to relate to my teenager or her sisters for many years. When they start filing their own taxes, applying for home loans or looking for deals on gas grills, I’ll be available for them. I’m brokenhearted.
I stand by my claim that the guitar riff’s not bad and this song is catchy. Plus, they’re actually singing live on SNL. Here’s Karmin’s Brokenhearted.
Sweet Disposition
The tan line on his left ring finger had disappeared. It had been three months and four days since her death. Standing over a kitchen sink, he was mesmerized at the ease with which the soapy water trickled over his unadorned hand. When he’d worn the ring, months earlier, he’d take it off to wipe the film that formed when he cleaned with his wife. Words she would say during those moments sang through his mind.
“I hate it when you take your ring off. It feels like you’re not mine for few seconds. That breaks my heart.”
He swallowed hard. Violet spoke over his right shoulder.
“Dad, I’ve got so much homework. It’s so ridic. Can you finish the dishes?”
He bit his bottom lip and placed a washed plate on a white towel layed across the counter. His chest heaved and he responded in a stutter.
“Vi, I, uh, I would, um, like to go see your mom tomorrow. Will you go with me?”
The prospect of her saying no or him breaking down in tears wasn’t something he could endure. He refused to turn around. Violet’s answer was a small hush.
“Yes.”
He waited until Violet’s bare feet stopped making squeaks on the hardwood floor before turning on the water. Her cute steps soothed him. After several minutes of washing and drying dishes, cutlery and cups; he turned off the water and heard faint laughter. It sounded like his wife’s. He began a slow stride toward the middle of the house and almost said her name when he realized it was Violet. Their laughs were identical. Then he heard Violet say, “Oh my God, Davey!”
He clenched his fists and muttered.
“Damn it!”
Running up the stairs, leaping two at a time, he arrived at Violet’s Chris Daughtry postered bedroom door and pushed it open. Violet’s large blue eyes bulged and she reached for her laptop. He growled.
“Say goodbye, Violet!”
She said nothing and closed the video chat screen then glared with incredulousness at her father. He snapped, again.
“Vi, you’re doing homework and handing me your phone and web cam!”
Violet sneered and crossed her arms over her t-shirt displaying the band The Temper Trap.
“What’s the deal? I was just saying hey and goodnight to Davey! This wasn’t major until mom…..”
Violet didn’t finish the sentence. She read her father’s hurt, dead stare. It took over the room. She stood on her bed, pulling cords that connected her phone and web camera to the wall. She handed them over with attitude.
“So, can I, like, study now? “
Her tone and body language were defiant. He marveled at how grown-up she appeared. A dizziness overwhelmed him and he was afraid to move. He mouthed “sit down”. Violet obliged and splayed over her full-size bed, pulling a blue bedspread over her volleyball practice shorts and long bare legs.
“I miss her too, Vi. So much. But I can’t stop being your dad, ever. Davey distracts you. Your grades were going down before…..”
He was painted into a corner with his words. He stopped his speech and looked around Violet’s room. Next to a hair straightener, on a book shelf, under an indie rock CD was a blue and white square. Violet followed his eyes and got out of her bed. She tip-toed to the little hardcover book and pulled it off the shelf.
“Dad, I found this in mom’s closet about a week ago. I forgot to tell you. I loved that book so much when I was little.”
He took it from her and laughed while reading the title.
“Detective Puppy and the Case of the Missing Knickerbockers was your favorite when you were four years old. You made your mom and I read it to you every night for months. I miss that little girl.”
He handed it back and turned to leave the room.
“I do too, dad. So, can I have my phone and cam, back?”
He was crying and almost to the door when he replied over his left shoulder.
“Absolutely, not, Violet. Now, do you homework.”
****blogger’s note****
This is my response to my friend Grace’s Indie Ink challenge
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Grace O’Malley challenged me with “Detective Puppy and the Case of the Missing Knickerbockers” and I challenged Leo with “elegantly wasted”
Today’s song is from the t-shirt Violet’s wearing. It’s an indie pop-rock band from Australian, The Temper Trap, that had a cool hit in 2009-2010. Here’s Sweet Disposition.
Taylor
I cried this morning. I did it last night, too. I’ll probably break down again after I write this. I alternate between shame, pride, and satisfaction at my emotional state. I knew this day was coming. I just didn’t allow my brain to process the emotions until now.
In a few moments, after I click “publish”, I’ll walk upstairs, stumble through the darkness, step over a kitten or two, and open my oldest daughter’s bedroom door. As I do each morning, Monday through Friday, when I’m in town, I’ll press my thumb and index fingers over her little toes poking out from her blanket. I’ll say “good morning beautiful” and she’ll grumble back “guhh mornun”. The difference, this time, will be that she’s sixteen years old.
I’ve written several times about our relationship. I met Taylor aka Tay when she’d just turned twelve. In the almost 4 years I’ve had the privilege to be her father, I’ve loved her like I loved her eight year old sister, whom I made with my DNA, and her seven year old sister, whom I did not.
To know her is to experience her. She’s a blonde ball of sunshine in my life that I just can’t describe and I’m supposed to be a writer.
I can’t write anymore, because, yeah, I’m crying.
Today is about my daughter. So, get off me about the song. Her favorite human being in the world is Taylor Swift. I didn’t even listen to it before I put it in this post. Just know, my sixteen year old daughter will eventually read this and she’ll appreciate that her, well, she calls me Lance most of the time, posted some T-Swift.
Happy Birthday beautiful. There’s a bag of flaming hot cheetos downstairs.
I love you.
How Soon Is Now?
I notice what I don’t see. One daughter’s karate, no fathers. Another daughter’s school event, few fathers. My oldest daughter’s cheerleading competition with hundreds of parents in attendance, and you can count the fathers on one hand.
I’m not better than anyone. I am there. Where are the others? Don’t they know that’s how strippers are made?
The children know when you aren’t involved. The girls forget nothing. Work is important but nothing exceeds your kids’ happiness.
“It’s just one thing”.
That’s the lie some tell to feel satisfied as a parent. How Soon is Now? Now is when they need you.
*****blogger’s note****
This is my response to velvet’s 100 word challenge http://www.velvetverbosity.com The One word prompt is SATISFIED.
Today’s song is one of my favorites. It’s a way to interpret the post. Laziness, lack of attentiveness, avoidance, it’s all an excuse. The Smiths once asked How Soon Is Now? to explain their feelings about politics, relationships and life. I use it to ask about fatherhood.
Here’s one of the greatest guitar riffs of all time….
Stereo Hearts/My Teenager’s Good & It’s All My Fault
I have been waiting three years for a disaster. My daughter, Tay, is 5’1″, barely over 100 pounds, with long blonde hair, and sparkling blue eyes of wonder. One minute she’s quiet, the next she’s embullient. Without warning she can strike. She’s fifteen years old.
I’m still waiting.
“What’s on your mind, baby.” My wife asked.
“Our daughter isn’t rebellious. She’s too good to be true. Where’s the crazy hairstyle, the out of control attitude, the unacceptable friends, the piercing we can’t believe?” I bemoaned.
“Are you really hoping Tay misbehaves? Be thankful she’s sooo good!” My wife told me.
A little over three years ago I met a 12 year old Taylor aka Tay, her now 6 year old sister Carly aka “the Goose”, and their mom, my wife, Deana aka Bobina. Everyone told me that what the Tay thought of me would determine my relationship with her mom. They were right. Tay and I got a long brilliantly. We were friends. Then, I married Bobina in November 2008 and everything changed. Tay didn’t like me anymore. I became her dad.
I started fearing her teenage years and high school. Twenty six years ago I was 15. That’s a generation ago. When I was 15 my parents took away my Whitesnake Slide It In cassette, calling it “trash”. They were strict and authoritarian. We never talked about music or sports or sex. I lived in fear of them. That sparked rebellion. I drank some, I made a few bad grades, I dated some awful girls, and I acted out. Tay does none of this.
“Don’t you think Tay is kind of boring?” I asked my wife?
“No, I think she’s 15, not like you or me at that age, and she’s amazing.” Bobina responded.
Then I talked to my daughter and found out the real reason rebellion has been squashed in my home.
“You and mom act sorta young . You joke, you’re dorky and you’re all dumb and stuff. It’s hard for me to walk around mad or rebel. Things are cool.” Tay revealed.
You’re reading that right. Because her mom and I are so awesome, Tay has no choice but to be a good kid. That’s how I took it. Ok, maybe that’s presumptous and sarcastic.
My parents did a good job raising me. I became the first person to graduate college in my entire family. By 18 years old, I was living on my own, earning my way, and considered mature. What I didn’t get from my folks that Tay and her two sisters (we have a 7 year old named Lyla aka Bug) get is affection, heart to heart talks, and understanding. My mom and dad didn’t get me or give me break. I didn’t begin talking to them about my life until 5 years ago, when I was well in my thirties and divorced. My father and I are friends now. I didn’t see that coming.
My wife and I do act young. We have tattoos. We listen to better music than my teenager. Most of all, we talk and love our girls with as little judgement as necessary. This seed planting is bearing fruit in the form of Tay, our level-headed 15 year old.
I’m not declaring mission accomplished. The disaster could happen tomorrow. Tay has a friend who is a boy. I doubt that will end well. It rarely does. Her classes have gotten harder in her sophomore year and thus her grades are slightly lower. She doing great at cheerleading but learning to handle a tough coach and the politics that surround her sport. Last night, her mom and I handled a delicate situation with the c0ach that could have been a major problem. I think Tay is teaching her mom and I how to grow up. There will be driving and the unexpected I’m not ready to face. But, I am satisfied that my differing style of parenting from my folks is working, for now. On a recent ride home from cheerleading practice I broke down and talked to Tay about what I was writing. Her answer blew me away
“Well, you know, I’m kind of happy most of the time. You and mom don’t make me mad that much. You listen to me. You let me talk. Even when I get grounded, it’s because I did something worth getting grounded. You don’t have better music than me. My music is the best because it’s good not shocking with bad words. I mean if you want me color my hair and my finger nails black and yell at you, I’ll do it, but whatever. I want some Doritos.”
Cue the Rage Against the Machine.
****blogger’s note****
This is a guest post I wrote for katie and cortney at www.sluiternation.com in late July with some slight updates.
Riding in the car yesterday listening to today’s song and then reading Dawnie’s blog – http://www.thedawnieproject.com/ also highlighting the song, I decided to post this.
Today’s song is something I call the compromise. I’ve tried to find music Tay and I can agree on so we can listen to stuff in the car that doesn’t make me want to punch the dashboard. I like Maroon 5. They have 2 or 3 songs per album that are decent pop records. Adam Levine sings lead for this hip hop pop tune by Gym Class Heroes. It really bounces off the radio. Tay and I love to listen and sing along. Here’s Gym Class Heroes and Adam Levine with Stereo Hearts.
I’m An Adult Now
The most famous blogger is a mom. She makes six figures a year dispensing advice, stories, and what some call wit to a million plus people a day. She does nothing for me as a reader. I find her contradictory, thin-skinned, self aggrandizing, and kind of mean. I think the conclusion is women control sex, money, Hollywood, and the internet. Men still have the NFL and comic books, but the more pink uniforms and action chicks there are, will render us completely submissive by the year , oh, 20 something, let’s call it tomorrow.
My life is so female oriented, I’m like a cabana boy on the Amazon Island Wonder Woman grew up on. If you include the neighbor girl across the street we take to school, my postal carrier, and the the old woman who sits next to me in my office, I have 14 women that interact with me daily. I know more about nail polish than Chuck Berry (Maybelline…his famous rock song…I disgress).
My blogging instinct tells me there’s wisdom to dispense. Heck, there’s money to be made if that woman in Utah who goes by the name of something that rhymes with Looce, I should cash in. But here’s where I’m different and why you should read me.
I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING….EVER
My 3 daughters, 15, 8, and 7 aka Tay, Bug and Goose are well behaved, respectful, funny, interesting, smart, and of course, drop dead gorgeous. The thing is, I don’t have a parenting style. One day I’m irritated and angry and blustery. The next I’m sweet, caring, and approachable. My kids and I talk a lot. At first, things don’t go well.
“How was your day at school”
“Good” “Good “Good”
Then I start asking questions, cracking jokes, letting them listen to their favorite songs on the radio, and telling them how beautiful they are. Suddenly, they open up. Tay tells me about her math class struggles and the rigors of high school Cheerleading. Bug talks about the boys pulling her long curly brown hair on the school bus. Goose drops news of her new BFF at school and how she had gross pizza for lunch.
I grew up with a healthy respect and fear of my parents. They didn’t always small talk me or goof with me but they provided and made sure I didn’t break limbs or get my head cut off playing outside. Things are different ay my house. My girls don’t respond to gruffness or lack of patience. “Because I said so” doesn’t work. They want to know what we’re doing, why we’re doing it, and how quickly results will be obtained. I never have the right answers. When I think they don’t “get it” and I’m at my wits end, they become loving and understanding. I learn as much from them as they do from me.
My worst days as a parent are always my most profound. No one really scores knowledge from success. When failure happens, that when you get your head out of your arse. A few days, I had a terrible day as a dad. The kids weren’t the best that day. I was tired and I ate too much birthday cake. Yet, it’s my gig to hold it all together and be strong when my girls (and wife) don’t want to be or just can’t. I lost my cool, I overreacted. The lesson was I should always look at the positive of what my kids provide. They love unconditionally. They’re remarkable in their retention and resillience. We’re a blended family. That means there have been multiple divorces, several moves, and a lot of sadness for mom and dad. Yet, they don’t show any outward signs of mental anguish.
I might respect more or at least not poke as much fun at mommy and daddybloggers if they would drop judgement of us more liberal parents. Breastfeeding, slings, organic foods, Baby Einstein videos, and overprotection don’t mean very much next to constant support and relaxation with the likelihood that your kids will fall down, get up, and shake themselves off. With their hands dirty and no purell. Germs mean character. Go tell the mommybloggers I wrote that…go ahead.
I’ll leave work pick up up my kids from school, go home and everyone will hug and kiss me and we’ll all have in depth conversations about our days. Then I’ll wake up from my dream and prepare myself for some sister arguing, my wife wanting me to go to the grocery store, and a list of at least 7 things I didn’t do right today. The fact that I know it’s 7 means I’m ahead of the game. I do know that my teenager is cheering through a sprained ankle, my middle child is wearing a Superman t-shirt to school and my youngest finished her school project a day early.
Don’t take my advice. Do me a favor and don’t take anyone else’s. Love and instinct will shine the light for you as a parent. If you live with more than one female, look into religion, alcohol, and ibuprofen. Also get a gym membership. You can hide there for an hour at a time.
Today’s song is something I’ve wanted to use for months. I played the heck out of it when I was a DJ in college. At the time, I never thought I’d be a parent or grown up. Here’s Candian rock band The Pursuit of Happiness with I’m An Adult Now. It’s sarcastic, sardonic, and smirky. Just like this post.
