The How-Not-To Guide to Parenting and Marriage (2 page)

3. CINNAMON RAISON MANGO ICE CREAM

Last night, as our family gathered in the living room to await the season premiere of our favorite detective show, my wife announced that she was taking orders for an ice cream run.

"Caramel English Toffee", I said without needing to give it a second thought, because for me, there is no other ice cream on earth. I even dream about eating it.

My daughters also put in their orders, and off she went to the store.

After what seemed like an eternity, my wife returned with the grocery bag that contained my lactose drug of choice . . . . . or so I thought.

She sat the bag on the table and began to rummage through it, pulling out chips, soda, the girls’ choice of ice cream . . . . . the anticipation was killing me. I was like a hungry dog that was being teased with a piece of bacon held over its head. I could hardly stand the wait. Then finally, she pulled out the final item from the bag, and handed it to me. My hands trembled as I grasped the cold, heavenly pint of . . . . . . Cinnamon Raisin Mango Ice Cream?

My brain froze. The little hour glass started spinning
in the middle of my brain screen, like a computer that was about to crash. Was this a joke? I studied her face for any signs that the ice cream I was holding in my hand, was not the ice cream I was expected to eat.

"Ummm . . . . . . Uh, this isn't . . . ."

"I know. I saw this and thought you might like it better", she said without even letting me finish my sentence.

Now, I'm not crazy about cinnamon, and I'm neutral on mango at best, but I HATE raisins.
I really hate raisins. In fact, If I ever found myself hopelessly surrounded by zombies in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, and an army truck full of life-sized, gun wielding raisins came roaring up to save me, I would probably tell them that I was doing alright on my own, and take my chances that a truck full of gun wielding chocolate chips would happen by.

"Well, uhh, I don't really like raisins"

"Yes you do", she said matter of factly.

I pondered a moment on her answer, and it slowly began to occur to me that I might be entering into an argument about what I like and don't like, which seemed odd to me.

In nearly every other argument I can think of, fact takes president over personal opinion. But in the argument over what I like and don't like, personal opinion would carry more weight . . . . .  especially MY opinion.

"I'm pretty sure I don't like raisins", I said cautiously.

"Yes you do", she answered again, only this time, with a confidence that led me
to believe that I might actually lose the argument over what I like and don't like.

After a few more pathetic attempts at convincing my wife that I didn’t like raisins, I confirmed that
the argument was indeed unwinnable. I was apparently wrong about not liking raisins. Besides, she was kind and thoughtful enough to make the ice cream run, so I sat down and started eating the ice cream with all the determination of someone enduring a colonoscopy.

By now, the show had started, and the distraction provided me with the opportunity to sneak the majority of the raisins to our dog Pippy, who gulped them down with much enthusiasm.

I determined that it was crucial that she didn't catch me feeding them to the dog, because neither the dog nor I had asked her if the dog actually likes raisins. For all we knew, the dog might also be mistaken on whether it liked raisins or not.

4. DECORATING WITH A HUSBAND’S TOUCH

How, in our culture, has it become accepted that the wife is the decorator of the house? Why is it such a crime for me to hang my Pink Floyd "Wish You Were Here" poster in the living room? What's wrong with white walls?
How many candles are too many in a given room? These questions have been plaguing me since my wedding day.

Before my wife moved in
to my apartment and ruined everything, I had a cool living room. The Pink Floyd poster was the center piece on the wall, flanked by a battle-ax and a samurai sword that I had gotten awesome deals on at the flea market. On my coffee table sat a stuffed armadillo, and in the corner stood a one armed mannequin dressed in a tan, suede tuxedo, and a Viking's helmet. The refrigerator stood next to the couch, giving me easy access to the beer crisper, without needing to stand up and walk into the kitchen.

But
it’s all gone now. There is not a shred of manliness left in the room. Every object decorating the space falls into one of three categories; flower-plant, candle, or huge word (the huge words are hung or painted on the wall and say things like 'LOVE' or 'FAMILY' or some cheesy saying that no self-respecting man would ever utter.

The walls have been
painted a baby poop yellowish-brown, except for the brilliant red 'accent' wall, which makes my head hurt and my ears ring when I look at it for too long.

She has had her way with
the bathroom as well. It’s a light purple color, and she has hung mirrors everywhere to make the small space look bigger. Mirrors in the bathroom are fine for the vanity, but why do I need one hanging where I can see myself sitting on the toilet? And not just one angle, I can view myself sitting from the front or side view. . . . . . . I never really realized what funny faces I make when I'm pooping. There is also a small mirror hanging over the back of the toilet that provides a near perfect image of my stomach to knee area when standing in front of the toilet. A floral print shower curtain now hangs where my Star Wars shower curtain once hung.

She has taken over the entire house. Like a virus, the candles, plant material, huge words and mirrors have spread into every room. All I have left is my shed. It's where my Pink Floyd poster now hangs and my armadillo resides.
It’s where I go and sit, when the grief over losing my man-inspired decorating themes.

It would seem that I have no say left when it comes to our choice in home fashion, but at least I still have my shed.
If she ever gets the crazy idea to decorate my shed, I'll burn it to the ground! I'd rather see it ablaze than defiled with the "wife decorating virus".

COMMUNICATION FAIL

When my daughter
Hannah was younger, my wife began spelling words that we didn't want her to hear.

"Do you want to take H-A-N-N-A-H to the C-I-R-C-U-S?"

But I readily admit that I am not the greatest at spelling, and I do not remember long sequences of numbers or letters well. So often when she rattled off something like "we need to get supplies for the S-U-R-P-R-I-S-E B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y P-A-R-T-Y”, I would still be sounding out the surrrrr...... While she was finishing the R-T-Y.

If I was actually able to figure out the first syllable or word, I would have already forgotten the letters that made up the rest of the secret phrase. It would sometimes take as long fifteen minutes to sound out, ask her to repeat letters, sound out, ask her to repeat letters and so on.

And then one day, I had just begun the intricate process of sounding out the letters C-A-R-N-I-V-A-L, when Hannah piped up, "Carnival. It spells carnival, dad". My daughter could not only spell, but she could do it quite a bit faster than me.

T
o overcome the problem of my six year old daughter being able to out-spell me, my wife began spelling things backwards. I feel there could be only one reason for her to think that this would be a good idea, and that would be to humiliate me.

So now, whenever she spat out a backwards spelled word, I had to run and find a pen and paper, ask her to repeat it so I could write it down, and then start at the last letter translating the backwards word back to a forward word, so that I could then begin the sounding out process.
At this point, it was taking as long as a half hour for me to sound out some of the longer backward words and phrases.

But again, it was only a matter of months before my daughter could decode the backwards secret word before I could even locate my pen and paper. So now, instead of my wife and I using word spelling to keep things secret from my daughter, my wife and daughter have begun to spell out words and phrases backwards that they don't want ME to know.

"Don't tell dad that we T-U-O W-E-R-H-T his favorite pair of S-R-E-K-A-E-N-S Y-E-L-O-H."

It has become so infuriating, that I have decided to learn Latin from a book that I bought at a garage sale. And once I do, I will be able to say things that they won't be able to understand......just other Latinese people..... If I can find any.

6. I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON.

I'm vaguely aware of a noise. . . . I tune it out, and go back to my dream about killing zombies.

I think I hear the noise again. . . .
It’s an annoying noise. . . . It’s like a loud buzzing noise. Once again, I tune it out.

Now I hear the noise again, only this time, there is a voice with it. I decide to lift the window shades of my brain just enough to see what all the commotion is about. The annoying noise is the alarm, and the voice belongs to my wife. She seems to be saying something to me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a neon sign is flickering. It reads, "Just hit the snooze button". This sounds like a very good idea. But I still here the noise of the alarm, and my wife seems to be still saying things, only she seems to be getting a little more annoyed, or at least that's what it sounds like.

I decide to actually open an eye to see what in the world is causing my wife to complain, and the snooze button not to work.

I open an eye and turn my head to discover that the snooze button isn't working because I'm not hitting the snooze button, and my wife is complaining because I'm hitting her forehead as if it were the snooze button.

"Why is your stupid head where the stupid snooze button should be?
” I grumble as I painfully get out of bed and wrap myself in the blanket like a robe.

As I head downstairs I hear my wife once again complaining. Something about
me being a jerk for stealing the blanket.

As I enter the kitchen, I nearly trip to my death on the cat who is still sleeping blissfully. Not just sleeping blissfully, but sleeping blissfully and smirking. Smirking because she is still sleeping
blissfully while I get up and go earn money to feed her flea bitten carcass. I throw the cat outside.

I stumble my way
into the bathroom and sit down on the toilet. A few minutes pass. I try to remember if I went to the bathroom or not. I can’t remember so I stand up. I then realize that I probably didn't go to the bathroom, for in spite of the fact that I did make it to the toilet and sat down, I still had the blanket wrapped around me like a burrito. So had I actually went to the bathroom, there would probably be some evidence of it inside the burrito. I take off the blanket and sit back down.

I go back into the kitchen to make a piece of toast, but I can't find the bread anywhere. This angers me greatly, and I begin muttering unkind words to whomever it was who lost the bread.

"What are you muttering about?" my wife calls down from the bedroom.

"SOMEONE LOST THE STUPID BREAD!!"

"It's on the bread shelf in the pantry" she answers.

I can hear her smirking, as I open the pantry to find the bread.

"Stupid place for the bread. . . .", I mutter as I put a piece in the toaster.

A few minutes later, my toast pops up. Only it isn't toast, it's a piece of black lava rock. Burnt to a crisp, and shot up from the belly of hell.

"You did that on purpose!" I sneered as evilly as possible.

"What are you muttering about now?" my wife calls down.

"Nothing!! I was talking to the toaster!" I answer. I can hear the toaster smirking.

I manage to find a pair of pants and head out to my truck. I get in my truck, but then realize that it is nearly impossible to put on a pair of pants while inside the truck. I step back out of the
truck and put my pants on. The neighbor gives me an odd look as he pulls out of his garage and observes me struggling with my pants in the driveway. I can hear him smirking.

Finally, with pants on, and a rock hard piece of lava toast in my mouth, I’m able to get the truck rolling down the road. I make it to the coffee shop where heaven awaits. An extra-large dark roast and a glazed donut. Like a marathon runner at the finish line, the coffee and donut mark the ending to yet another morning.
. . . . I am not a morning person.

7.
SECOND CHILD SYNDROME

A short time ago, my youngest daughter Natalie asked me why there were no pictures of her in the family photo archives.

"Of course we have pictures of you", I replied, and grabbed a box of pictures to prove my point.

As I began flipping through the photos, I was alarmed to find that there really were no photos of Natalie. I mean there were the normal burst of photos taken within the month or two after she was born, and a few school pictures, but then the Natalie photos seemed to just taper off to nothing. Frantically I searched three more boxes, but all I came up with was a shot of the back of her head, when she had apparently wandered into a picture I was taking of my lawn mower.

As for our first born
, Hannah, there were pictures of nearly every event in her early years. There were pictures of her birth, her first week, her first month, and all the months following. There were pictures of her first solid food, her first steps, and her first bloody nose, Christmas programs, playing in the snow, rain and sun. There was even a picture of her first poop on the potty . . . . . . And not just one of her on the potty, I'm talking about a picture of the actual poop.

My wife and I didn't intentionally decide not to take pictures of our second child, nor do we love her any less than the first. I think that we are just more relaxe
d as parents having survived our first one. Maybe a little too relaxed.

As I thought about it, I realized that it applied to more than just picture taking. One time, Hannah had gotten some dog food out of its dish and eaten it. My wife and I panicked. We rushed her to the emergency room, convinced she would succumb to dog germs at any second. But after a few eye rolls, the doctor on duty assured us that she would pull through, and indeed she did.

So having been through a few incidents like that with Hannah, we were a little less uptight when Natalie came along. So less uptight, that when Hannah came in the front door and informed us that Natalie was eating dead bugs out of the car radiator, my wife’s only reaction was to tell Hannah to make sure that Natalie brushes her teeth when she was finished so that she wouldn't have dead bug breath.

Likewise with the pictures, after trying so hard not to miss photographing a single moment with Hannah, we realized that you just end up with mounds of pictures that make you wonder why you took them. So we were not as camera crazy when Natalie came along.

We love both of our daughters very much, but I guess we went from fretting too much with
the first one, to being a little too relaxed with the second. I think if we would have had a third child, we might have been able to get it right.