When Parenting Doesn’t Suck.

Bottom line?  Kids are maniacal, horrifying sub-humans hell bent on destroying our lives. They consistently push boundaries to the point where we lose it, consider leaving them adrift–one more word… AND YOU’RE LIVING IN THE STREETS!!  …Um, seems like I forgot the title of this post.  Got a little carried away there.  Ok.  I guess I feel guilty for complaining about my kids.  This post is my penance.

The moments where they’re civil cherubs, those moments where our hearts melt, all seems well with the world, my desire to be a parent confirmed.  But wait.  Before I get into all the mushy stuff, let’s begin with the simple, like putting your… DAMN SHOES ON!  Sorry about that.  Alright. Back to the point.

The morning routine, a ripe environment for chaos, my hope is that this goes well, a simple task…

“C’mon girls, let’s put our shoes on.”  Can’t let them leave the house without shoes, I’d be reported.  Can’t have that.

“Ok, Dad!”  They find their shoes among the miasma of footwear and actually put them on themselves–I’m overjoyed!  One more child chore I don’t have to do. It’s like we graduated from Foot Academy or something.

Then the screaming, the unholy reckoning, mortality on the line… over a plastic block?!  Really?  Sure, they have their shoes on, but the DEFCON 1 nature of this “block situation” drowns out their previous footwear victory. Someone has something someone else wants.  It’s on.  Possession is central to any problem, I’ve found.  Possession of an object, food, even possession of a thought is cause for unbridled anarchy.  There, I’ve gone and done it again, lost sight of this post’s purpose.  Let’s get to the mushy stuff.

“Dad… Dad?  Dad, I love you.” Completely out of the blue the boy hits me with a solo home run.  I’m weak.

“I love you, too, son.”  It’s the randomness of kids, their seemingly reasonless outbursts of care that get to me in the best way.

And what about the moments when I’m given a random token of affection–a leaf, an acorn, a scrap of paper, the object accompanied by, “Dis for you Daddee.”  I lose it, people.  The jacket I wear to work, a leather Indiana Jones number, my left pocket bustles with acorn hats.  My daughter gave them to me.  With the increasing cold my hands are drawn to my pockets, car keys on the right, more importantly, acorn hats on the left.  I thumb through them, reassured that I’m loved on my way to work.  Not a bad way to start the day.

And their observations, kids are just plain awesome in how they perceive things. Just this morning my son dropped an A-bomb of an idea…

“Dad.  What if E.T. was in a heavy metal band!”  He’s not asking.  It’s an utterly unique idea that has me laughing out loud.

“What did you just say?”  I’m trying to catch up to his thought process.

Not reiterating, he just comes back with a thundering, “YEAH!  He could be like, yelling and screaming PHONE HOME! …PHONE HOME!!

I’m beaming.

So, they’re a pain in the ass, kids.  But they’re everything else I need.

The kids

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