The How-Not-To Guide to Parenting and Marriage (4 page)

12.
TEACHING OUR PETS TO BE MORE SELF SUFFICIENT

As the man of our household, and an intellectual type person, I am always on the lookout for ways to further streamline our daily lives, and make things around our home as efficient as possible. This type of thinking has led to many revolutionary ideas such as showering with clothing on (laundry and personal hygiene with the same water) and my attempt at having the girls discipline each other when needed, so that I didn't have to get involved (admittedly, this was not a great idea, as it tended to look more like a fist fight than discipline).

As I sat down to watch television one night, I was immediately solicited by our dog, Chip, for petting and affection. I then realized that for the entire history of our owning family pets, one could not sit down on the couch without a cat, dog, or some matter of domesticated beast, immediately jumping up on my lap and demanding attention.

This is when I began to wonder if there wasn't a better system that would eliminate me from the whole animal petting social structure. After all, I didn't require the affirmation of the animals petting me! Why should I even be in the mix? Was it not enough that I provided them with a home, food, and a new carpet to poop upon?

After careful consideration, I decided to teach the animals, (two cats and one dog
) to pet each other, and then informed my wife of my intentions. As with any genius who is far advanced beyond his time, I was instantly confronted with skepticism.

"Remember what happened when you tried to make the kids discipline each other!" my wife reminded me for the hundredth time, "do you really want the police here again?”

"This is totally different", I replied, "and besides, the police were here because one of the rocks that the girls were throwing at each other, hit the neighbors windshield! Not because they were using the rocks to discipline each other. But realizing that I would get no support from my wife, I went forward with my plan.

My first attempt was rather straight forward. As I sat down on the couch, and Chip hopped up on my lap, I grabbed the cat who was sitting beside me, and put them together. Both animals stared at me with what might be described as 'confused looks'. Taking the cue, I grabbed Chip's paw, and began petting the cat with it. Lydia (the cat) hissed and tried to escape, which involved the brandishing of all four sets of claws. In an attempt to keep the cat on my lap with Chip, I grabbed her tail at the same instant that Chip lunged, sinking one of his fangs into the cat's tail, and the other into my thumb. Chaos ensued.

"Should I call the police now?” my wife said mockingly.

"If you're not going to be supportive, can you at least help by vacuuming up the fur?" I grumbled as I set off to find a non-ripped pair of pants, and some band aids.

But not being one who easily gives up, I planned my next attempt, convinced that the end result would justify the time and effort.

I pondered on how better to achieve my goal.  P
erhaps pets don't have the dexterity to actually pet each other. Maybe I would be better off teaching them to lick each other, since they seem to have no problem licking themselves.

This plan seemed simple enough to implement, I would start by teaching Chip to lick the cats by smearing a touch of bacon grease onto the backs of both cats, and letting nature take its course.  This should surely train the animals to “pet” each other.

Having greased both cats, I set one down in front of Chip. Chip instantly smelled the bacon grease and gazed up at me with a look that enlightened me to the error in my plan. He looked at me as if to say, "You want me to eat the cat?”

Simultaneously, Chip and I lunged for the cat. Chaos once again ensued, but with a noticeably higher degree of intensity than had occurred with the first incident.

After another period of flailing claws, and snapping fangs, things eventually calmed down. As I set off to find another pair of pants, a shirt and band aids, I began to wonder if maybe the end result might not be worth the effort.

I am not a quitter. However, I have decided to postpone my efforts until such time that a safer and sounder method of training the animals to pet each other can be found. I welcome the suggestions of any who can see the genius in my vision, especially since I was getting no support from my wife. Any remarks suggesting that the police be called, need not be made. My wife has a more than ample supply of those.

13. WHO'S TRAINING WHO?

When you have children, one of two things is always happening. Either you are training them on how to act like mature, responsible adults, or they are training you to act more and more like a child.

This revelation came to me just the other day when my two daughters and I had just finished watching the cartoon that my youngest, Natalie, had chosen. Before that, we had watched a ridiculous children’s sitcom that my other daughter, Hannah, had picked.

I now figured that it was my turn to pick the show, but this was not agreeable to my darling children. An argument quickly broke out and soon escalated into violence. Fists were flying, teeth were gnashing and hair was being ripped from the roots.

After two minutes of this mayhem, I'd had it, so I announced in a loud voice of authority, "I've had it!"

With that, I left to go tell mom . . . . . . I mean my wife, that they wouldn't let me watch my show, and that Hannah had kicked me, and that if Natalie came and told that I pulled her hair, that she had hit me first .

T
hat's when I realized," Hey! I'm the adult here!"

So back to the living room I marched and said, "I am your father and you have to do what I say and I don't need to go tell Mom . . . . I mean my wife . . . . I mean your mother!" And with that being said, I bit Natalie on the arm, stomped on Hannah's foot, and sent them both to their rooms to think about resolving conflict in a responsible, adult-like manner. I was then able to sit down and watch Bugs Bunny in peace, like a mature grown up.

14. SHE’S TALKING TO MY BUTT

Every morning, I get up before my wife and get into the shower. And every morning while I'm in the shower, I can't help but relieve all the gas pressure that has built up over the past night, which comes out with the intensity of a trumpet blast. Being in the shower, this trumpet blast is amplified due to the acoustics of the fiberglass walls.

Since our bedroom door is kitty-corner to the bathroom door, my wife can usually hear the blast, which she seems to find obnoxious. And even more annoying to her is the fact that I can't help but laugh at the sound echoing off the shower walls . . . . . . Every morning.

Every great once in a while, after the morning gas release has rattled the windows, I hear my wife say in a groggy, not-quite-awake voice, "what did you say?"

This makes me laugh even harder, which infuriates her. I can't help but think that my wife is talking to my butt.

15. WAVES OF PARENTING

In a perfect world, or in the world of perfect parents, the bringing up of a child is a precision operation. There are policies and rules designed to mold sons and daughters into responsible, honest, productive adults. These rules are etched in stone and enforced with perfect consistency by parents who never waiver from their dedication to nurturing excellence. The end result is almost a sure thing, their children will end up being doctors and CEO’s and hosts of nationally televised game shows.

As much as I’d like to, I don’t live in that world.

I love my girls, and I want the very best for them, but I willfully admit that my parenting skills bend and shake like a palm tree being battered by a hurricane.

Last Thursday, as I lay on the couch in a position much like a corpse in a coffin, my darling children broke into their nightly fight. Hannah was assaulting Natalie with the vacuum hose that had an extension on it, using it like a sword and creating a dust cloud with each swing. Natalie’s weapon choice for the evening was the cat, which she held out in front of her, letting its wildly flailing claws work like a flesh ripping chainsaw. The dog was also a part of the melee, barking and snapping at whichever girl seemed to have the upper hand at the moment. And all this was taking place between my couch coffin and my glowing portal of escape (the television).

I knew that as the authority in the room, I should be disarming the combatants, lecturing on proper conflict resolution, and calming all form of domesticated wild beast. But to do so, I also knew that it would involve at least ten minutes of physically restraining and separating all involved, followed by five minutes of both parties yelling simultaneously about how the other had started it, then another ten minutes of debate, and a final round of “you always take her side” and the appealing of my verdict and punishment. Total time needed to resolve the riot in a responsible parent manner was estimated at thirty minutes. So I chose the only course of action that I was capable of in my exhausted, after-work state of mind . . . . Non-involvement.

To avoid feeling completely guilty over my apathy, I did muster the energy to yell, “You are both going to clean up any blood spatters and sweep up any hair or teeth that are ripped out!”, and with that being said, I did my best to watch the rest of my TV show while the battle raged on in front of me. But this incident only represents one half of the parental wave.

After a period of my expending as little amount of energy on parenting that I can get away with (or “choosing my battles” is the more popular term) I begin to feel guilty. I realize that I am failing as a father. I imagine how my lack of handling different situations and issues that arise, will lead my children to a life of crime. Then I imagine them joining a Manson-like cult and ending up on CNN, while news crews camp outside on my lawn to get a camera shot or interview of the horrible parent that created these monster children. So now, motivated by guilt and energized with a regained determination to train my children correctly, I become . . . . . . . . SUPER DAD, otherwise known as “dad is in jerk mode again”.

In SUPER DAD mode, I feel like I not only have to begin parenting like the perfect parents do, but I have to make up for lost time during my apathetic phase, so I watch them like a hawk. I think of character building lectures while I’m at work, and deliver them during dinner with all the fervor of a fiery Baptist preacher, pounding the pulpit (dinner table) and shooting life lessons, wisdom and scriptures at them like automatic gunfire. I wait for them to step out of line like a panther waiting to pounce on its prey. If they seem to be actually behaving, I go in search of crimes to convict them on. And my fervor causes me to make less and less sense:

Me: “WHY ARE ALL THESE CLOTHES DIRTY!!?”

Child: “Ummm . . . . . because we wore them?”

Me: “WELL YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BE ALLOWED TO WEAR CLOTHES ANYMORE IF THEY JUST END UP BEING DIRTY!!!”

Or

Me: “WHO BROKE MY DR. SPOCK BOBBLE HEAD!!??”

Child: “I did dad, a month ago, and you’ve yelled at me seven times for it now, and suspended my allowance”

Me: “Oh . . . yes, that’s because I am trying to show you how the mistakes you make can affect you for the rest of your life!!”

After a period of being in SUPER DAD mode, the laziness begins to return, and I feel like I’m being too hard on them. I start to lose interest in perfect parenting, like a child who has lost interest in a toy. So the pendulum begins to swing toward the apathetic side of the spectrum. Back and forth, back and forth, apathetic, militant, despite my best efforts to find a reasonable, consistent middle ground.

My only hope is that the end result will be an average of both the extremes. I suppose my inconsistency could also cause them deep seated psychological problems later on in their lives as well. But then, if they end up on CNN wearing an orange jump suit and shackles, I can at least blame it on their mental instability.

16.
EASTER

One Easter a while back, I decided to create the Easter egg hunt of all Easter egg hunts for my three and five year old daughters. I spent the entire day before, stuffing plastic eggs with candy, money and small trinkets, and then I hid them all over our two acre yard.

The next morning, I gave each girl a huge empty basket and explained that the Easter Bunny had hidden Easter Eggs all over the yard for them to find.

“What
a Eater Egg?” my youngest daughter asked.

“You know, like an egg that a bird lays, only the Easter Bunny brought them!” I answered, amazed that she didn’t know what an Easter egg was. “You’ll know when you find one.”

So off they went in search of their Easter treasures.

After about ten minutes, my wife and I walked over to check on the girl’s progress. As I approached my youngest Natalie, I asked, “How many Easter Eggs have you found, baby girl?”

“A whooooole bunch” she said, holding up her Easter basket.

Looking inside the basket, I was surprised to see that there was not a single egg in her basket, instead, there were several round rocks, a bottle cap, and what looked like pelvis and legs of an apparently long dead rodent of some kind.

“Oh, no baby girl, those aren’t-

Just then, a blood curdling scream came from the other side of the yard. My other daughter Hannah came running full speed from behind the shed, still clutching her Easter basket which contained what looked like a football sized, egg shaped hornet nest. My wife who had gone to check on her, was fleeing in the opposite direction, swatting the air frantically. And both were screaming in horror.

My first action was to catch up to Hannah and snatch the hornet basket from her, throwing it like a grenade. My next concern was my wife, who was very allergic to bees. It took a few seconds of sprinting to catch up to her in the front yard. She was screaming and swatting with all her might at a single bee that was swirling around her head. Not knowing what else to do, I began following behind her and swatting as well, smacking her on the head every time the hornet made an attempt to land.

In her flailing panic she had fallen to the ground. I feared that her being a stationary target would make her more vulnerable to the attacking insect, so I began to drag her by her shirt collar, which ripped.

“I think it’s gone”, she managed to say between panting and sobbing, but I didn’t have time to even think about her words, when a police car came sliding into the driveway, and two officers jumped out with guns drawn. I could only assume my neighbor across the street had noticed the commotion and called them. The very neighbor who had been less than friendly to me ever since my “trees are easier to burn standing than after you cut them down” incident.

So there I was, red faced and panting, standing over my sobbing wife who was collapsed on the ground with a ripped shirt, and my hand raised above my head as if ready to strike her. Hannah, the one who had found the Easter hornet nest, was standing not far away crying loudly, her lip and area around left eye swollen surprisingly large from what I could only assume were hornet stings. I had no idea where Natalie had gone off to.

“Get away from her, you sick bastard!” the one officer yelled with a great amount of contempt in his voice.

“No no, officer! It’s not what it looks like!” I said, realizing how bad the situation must appear.

“Did you do that too?” the other officer said, nodding towards Hannah, whose eye was almost swollen shut, and lip nearly as big.

“NO, I was just trying-

“Hey!” the other officer interrupted, “Aren’t you the idiot who decided to burn his trees down last summer?”

But before I could even begin to explain the logic in the tree burning, Natalie trotted out from around the corner of the house and over to the two gun holding officers. Smiling, she looked up and said, “my daddy says we can find Easter eggs” and with that, she pulled a piece of hardened dog poop out of her basket and held it up as if to offer it to the officer. His gaze of contempt grew even more intense.

“It’s not what it looks like!” I pleaded, not even sure where to start explaining, “We’re going to Easter church service!” (I’m not even sure why I thought that would help, but I was desperate)

Finally, my wife had calmed down enough to begin explaining the situation herself, and a questioning of my daughter Hannah eventually revealed that it was a hornet that had assaulted her instead of me. I’m not sure they believed that I had actually hidden Easter eggs since neither girl had anything in their baskets other than rocks, dead animals, hornet nests, and dog poop, but I could live with that.

In the years following, Easter baskets were sitting next to the girls beds, already filled, when they woke up in the morning. The girls didn’t like talking about the Easter Bunny any more. They had reasoned that he was a bit like Santa, and if you had been naughty in the previous year, you would not find Easter eggs. Instead, you would get attacked by bees, and the police would come and point their guns at you.