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‘Twas a Wonderful World (or Potty Training in Hell)

Posted by on Apr 21, 2007 in Uncategorized

(Sung to the tune of What a Wonderful World)

I saw trees of green, red roses too
I saw them bloom for me and you
And I thought to myself, what a wonderful world

Now

I see stool of brown and yellow pee
The bright blessed smell, that overtakes me
And I think to myself, ’twas a wonderful world

The colors in the toilet, I shake my head and sigh
Are also in your trousers, like splattered chocolate pie
I see friends shakin’ hands, sayin’ “How do you do?”
They’re really saying “I smell poo.”

I hear babies cryin’, insane I go
I’m sorry pampers, I didn’t know
And I think to myself, you’re still my little girl
Yes, I think to myself, ’twas a wonderful world.

Oh yeah


(Original un-bastardized lyrics by George Weiss and Bob Thiele. My apologies fellas)
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It’s good to be a dad

Posted by on Oct 22, 2006 in Uncategorized

Though it feels that every day is a test and that she would appreciate my failure much more than a second graham cracker, it’s good to be a dad.

There are times that she sits in her high chair, staring at me while I explain to her in gentle tones “Drink your god damned milk!” – tones so gentle they scrape my windpipe. And she smiles and tilts the cup and spills the cow juice all over the table. This upsets me. Though I know nothing makes her happier than to watch me mop up, it’s good to be a dad.

She kicks me in the balls and laughs. This I tell you sincerely: There are moments in life – moments when you are grabbing your nuts, sobbing, rolled in the fetal position, balls retracted – that it’s NOT good to be a dad. She giggles and climbs on top of you and says “Daddy fall down” while you are willing your balls to get back into position.

Left nut….I beg you…I know we’ve had our differences. if you’ll just get out of my stomach and go back where you belong I swear I’ll be better to you. Maybe we can catch a movie on Cinemax after everyone falls asleep. Just please go back where you belong…

And then it does. And then it’s good to be a dad.

The girl chases the dog around the house. Tries to step on dog’s head. I have to separate human from dog. Human throws tantrum. Not good to be a dad.
BUT…
Dog barks during football game. Daughter grabs squirt bottle and sprays dog. Dog shuts up. It’s good to be a dad.

She forces me to read Fox in Sox until my tongue falls out.
She makes me listen to “My Wish” by Rascal Flats every time we get in the car.
She takes off her soaking wet diaper during naptime and drapes it over her face.
Not good to be a dad.

BUT

She laughs at all my jokes.
She asks about me when I’m gone.
She loves me.

And someday – hopefully many years from now – I can tell her boyfriend all these details and embarrass her with old photos. “Want to see what she looked like with a diaper draped over her face, Jimmy?”

Yes, even when I’m taking her boyfriend aside and threatening castration – promising to rip it off with my bare hands and shove it down his throat if he gets it anywhere NEAR my daughter, I’ll remember:

It’s good to be a dad.
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Daddy Broke Chair

Posted by on Sep 3, 2006 in Uncategorized

I can’t decide which is more annoying – a swift kick to the balls or constantly being reminded of your exceptional girth.

A few days ago, I was trying to murder the dog when… Oh, I should probably explain why I was trying to murder the dog. The nine pound dachshund was leaping high in the air – a well-calculated attempt to steal my daughter’s breakfast. Like a domesticated predator, she sat poised on the dining room floor, a black stripe rising up her back, waiting for just the right moment to pounce. As the girl’s hand moved down to her lap holding the exquisite morsel of buttered bread, the dog quickly went into action. Pure instinct took over and she leaped high, grabbed the hunk of bread in her teeth and finished with a perfect dismount. While attempting to inhale the large boon all at once, I attempted to murder her.

However, sensing that her life was in danger, she dashed off just as I leaned over to do the deed. The arm of my chair cracked and the wood splintered. The arm swung down to the floor – broken. I’m certain I yelled a profanity. Not sure which one, but it couldn’t have been very original.

“Daddy broke chair.” My observant daughter announced. “Daddy broke chair.”

“Yes.” I replied. And soon I’ll break your little dog, too.

Since that fateful morning, she has informed every adult that we’ve come in contact with that “Daddy broke chair.” She tells the librarian, she tells the cashier at Starbucks, she tells her Grandmother on the telephone. “Daddy broke chair.”

But truly, as bad as the constant reminder of my dynamic waist line is, it can’t hold a candle to the beatings my balls have received recently. The worst incident happened a few days ago.

I was holding her in my arms while we crossed the street on the way to the library. She was so excited. I was paying attention to the cars and the traffic light, not her feet. And WHAM. She kicked me square in the nuts. I doubled over in the middle of the crosswalk, still holding her tightly. She laughed. Ha Ha. Funny daddy. I finished the monumental task of getting her across the street, slowly. The light probably turned yellow, red and green a few times before we finally made it. My head spun, my insides were on fire – and yet I kept moving, holding the girl in my arms. I felt like King Kong trying to hold onto Fay Wray while getting riddled with bullets; like Michael Douglas carrying Melanie Griffith over the border in Shining Through while the Germans turned him into swiss cheese with their machine guns. It was heroic, yet I didn’t feel like a hero. I felt like…sucky.

Then, last night at bedtime…

“Goodnight, honey.” I said sweetly, holding her in my arms.

“Goodnight, daddy.” WHAM.

Fine. Daddy break chair. Baby break balls.

Touche.

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