Mosquitoes Suck

The sun shines and warms and lights us, and we have no curiosity to know why this is so; but we ask the reason of all evil, of pain and hunger, and mosquitoes and silly people.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Recently, we celebrated the birthday of our great nation. We celebrated by eating hot dogs and hamburgers, setting off fireworks, and apparently inviting small, flying parasites to dine on…well, me. As we were sitting out in our lawn chairs watching the explosions in the air, I realized that I was just bitten by a mosquito. I know this because of my extensive research as a child. By research, I do mean my time as what I can only describe as a human pin cushion. For some God-forsaken reason, mosquitoes were drawn to me as a kid. I looked as if chicken pox was a chronic condition for me. Seriously, you would think my dad was Lazarus or something. I am pretty sure that if the show had existed back then, my parents could have applied for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. They would have included pictures of their pock-marked son covered in calamine and the bus would have pulled up shortly thereafter. I can only imagine my interview would resemble that of an interview with a crack addict that needed a fix…all of the scratching – the incessant scratching. In the end, the only improvement that would have been made to the house would be a giant mosquito net encompassing our entire lot, and possibly a year’s supply of OFF.

Speaking of OFF, yes, I did use it this year. As soon as that first bloodthirsty bastard bit me, I immediately reached for the can. I doused myself in this miracle aerosol and I did not feel another bite the rest of the evening. I was so relieved; it worked. Or so I thought. As I sit here and write this, my legs are covered in approximately 15-20 raised, red itch factories. So, I guess the spray that is supposed to create this repellent bubble around me as illustrated in the clever commercials is actually only a sugar-scented numbing agent that gives the consumer a false sense of security and hope. I couldn’t feel the bites, so they didn’t happen, right? Nope. It is 100 degrees outside, and I am tempted to wear corduroy pants just so they will scratch my legs as I walk.

Calamine – that stuff is a crock too. As a kid, calamine was only available in the pink form. Yeah, this is not traumatizing at all. I believe this is where we got the expression “add insult to injury”.

I know that you are constantly scratching red bumps all over your body to the point of discomfort and utter shame and the neighborhood kids won’t play with you, but here let’s put this medicine that looks like Pepto Bismol all over you so that you can feel better.

I think putting me in a bubble would have been less traumatizing. I am also convinced that this is another psychological thing, too. Surely my parents wouldn’t put this awful stuff on me and threaten my place in society if it didn’t work. It did not work. You think it works, but as soon as anything so much as grazes one bite, it is over. Let the clawing commence.

After a weekend full of scarring myself, I decided to research the actual usefulness of mosquitoes. Most of what I could come up with is that they have something to do with the food chain, or the circle of life, or something like that. Here is the science lesson I was given: these flying leeches feed off the blood of animals; they then are eaten by bats; the bats poop; the poop fertilizes the soil; we eat the products of the poop-soil; and then, the mosquitoes bite us some more. It is also stated that without mosquitoes, the bats would not be nourished, and thus would not poop. No bat poop, less food for us. I am pretty sure that I could do without the small amount of food that is made possible by the defecation of bats in order to rid the planet of mosquitoes. I am willing to make that sacrifice. If carrots were not possible because of the lack of bat-poop, I would be willing to find a carrot replacement.

Also in my research, I discovered that mosquitoes do make other contributions as well: malaria, dengue fever, yellow fever, encephalitis, and West Nile virus. Thank you so much. Now, who’s with me on giving up carrots, huh?

The mosquito’s only purpose, as far as I can tell, is to piss us off. That is all. They harm us, they steal from us, they disfigure us, they torture us (itching), and then they flee the scene. If this was a human doing the same thing to us, they would be in prison, and yet the mosquito flies away satisfied from the very meal we provided.  

If you think I am being a little extreme, think back to the last time you killed a mosquito and how much joy it brought to you. A person will spend 10 minutes attempting to kill a mosquito. During this 10 minutes, nothing else matters but the death of that parasitic SOB. Think of the last time you saw one in your car. Imagine your determination at that moment. When you know a mosquito is near, the outside world is non-existent until you see the carcass of the airborne pathogen in your hand.

I typically try and end my posts on some redeeming quality or anecdote. Unfortunately, in the case of mosquitoes, there are no redeeming qualities to speak of. I challenge you to find someone that just loves them. Look at the picture below, and try not to shudder. They are a species that needs to be eradicated, and I am doing my best with each swat of my hand. Join me!

 

To Be, or Not to Be

Nothing I’ve ever done has given me more joys and rewards than being a father to my children.

Bill Cosby

I apologize for the tardiness of this post as it was supposed to coincide with Father’s Day, but as we Dads know, sometimes we get a little busy. I first would like to take a look at the titles that have already been mentioned in this posting. Fathers and Dads – most people would deem these monikers to be synonymous; I would like to state otherwise. While the definition of these words is very similar if you were to look them up in the dictionary, I assure you, they are very different. To be a father, according to our good friends Merriam and Webster, means you are a man that has begotten a child. Congratulations. To be a Dad means something entirely different. We will get to that in a moment. You need further explanation you say? OK, here you go. There is a man that we all know that has brought being a Father to the forefront of society…Bill Cosby? Ward Cleaver? Alan Thicke? God? No, it is Maury Povich. If you have ever watched an episode of this awe-inspiring telecast, you know to what I am referring. Maury’s most famous statement made on a show is when he informs a fine, upstanding gentleman the he is or is not the Father of a particular child. He never refers to them as “the Dad”; always “the Father”. So, Maury smells what I am steppin’ in. I am a Father in that I have begotten children, but I am a Dad for many more important reasons. So, what does it mean to be a Dad?

To be a Dad means…

…that it is OK to cry. We cry when we find out we are going to be a Dad, and we cry again when we hear the heartbeat for the first time, and then yet again when that child comes into our lives. But, these are not the only times, I assure you.

…doing whatever that doctor asks of you during the delivery of your child, and I do mean WHATEVER is asked. There are things that you will see and hear that you never anticipated. You will never look at your wife the same way after that. There are many reasons for this newfound point of view, but mostly it will be because she is now your hero and the mother of your child.

…you know what meconium is. If you are unaware, meconium is the first dookie that your child brings forth. It is our job to take care of this gift that has been bestowed upon us. I equate this experience to the scene in Jurassic Park where the dinosaur spits a black, sticky substance into the face of that guy that played Newman in Seinfeld. Now, it is our job to clean it up. Have you ever tried to clean tar off of a dinner roll? It’s kind of like that.

…you want nothing more than to have that child lie on your chest and fall asleep. It is a feeling that you never want to end. It does not matter what else is going on around you as long as you don’t have to get up. Someone could come into your home, stick a gun to your head and rob you, and you would just look at them and say, “Shhh, if you wake this baby up, we are going to have problems.”

…middle of the night feedings involve you too. Just because you do not have the necessary attributes given by God to feed this child does not mean that you do not need to help with the process. In fact, my job was to get the child out of bed and place him or her in my wife’s arms. After much practice, you can actually do this without even opening your eyes.

…you are now the diaper checker. If there is a foul smell emanating from your child, it is your job to check if that smell is the result of a solid or a gas. I can recall standing in the middle of Walmart when such an instance arose. My wife gave me the look that meant I needed to provide an assessment of the situation. Without thinking, I ran my finger along the inside of the diaper to test…just gas. My wife, looking at me bewildered, asks, “what if it wasn’t gas?” I hadn’t really thought of that.

…licking pacifiers. There comes a time when a pacifier (sanity preservation device) hits the floor, and there is no sink in sight. This could be anywhere – the grocery store, the mall, or even the zoo. You could let your child scream for hours, or you could place that pacifier, that has God knows what on it (I mentioned the zoo, right?), in your mouth and lick it clean. Mmmm…unidentified filth.

…eating chewed up slobbered on food. Ah yes, there is nothing finer to my refined palette than a Goldfish cracker that is more of a liquid than a solid. I then like to wash that down – as if it was necessary – with a nice bottle of water with a few remnants of what was once a hot dog in it. I guess, in a way, it is kind of like a liquid diet.

…never watching an uninterrupted sporting event on television again. This is not as big of a deal as it used to be thanks to the wonderment that is DVR technology, but it is something that changes. I am not saying that this is a bad thing. In fact, there are times when playing with a puzzle, coloring, or reading a book are far more entertaining than watching some games. I have even tried to get my kids interested in watching the games, and this works – for approximately seven minutes.

…dropping your child off at daycare only to realize that it is water play day and there is no swimsuit in the bag. Keep in mind, you are already late for work, but there is no way your child is going to miss out on water play day. Come hell or high water, your child will play in the water, dammit. It is at this point that you drive all the way back home to get the swimsuit and return it to the daycare so your child can enjoy the elation that results from running through a sprinkler.

…wearing a tiara. You will be a princess; you will drink air out of tea cups; you will uncomfortably dress and undress Barbie; and, you will wear make-up. If you have a boy, you will play with cars; you will play sports and lose on purpose; and you will play catch with a perpetual look of fear on your face due to the uncertainty of the velocity and location of the ball coming at you. Did I mention that this will all take place while a sporting event is on TV?

…drool and snot are part of your wardrobe. Your shoulder will never be the same. When holding your child, do not wear anything that is Dry Clean Only; it will be ruined. Might I recommend patterns? I firmly believe this is why, after becoming a Dad, you are more comfortable in plaid…the mucus just blends right in.

…you will be peed and pooped on, and the crazy thing is the person defiling you is completely sober – and it is not you. When this occurs for the first few times, you will be disgusted and possibly start to dry heave. After these first few instances, there will come a time when you will just think to yourself, “Great, I got shit on AGAIN”, and go about your day.

There are numerous clichés and general statements that have to do with Fatherhood, but to be a Dad is truly an exceptional experience because no two Dads are the same. Each one of us is unique due to the individuality of our children. Having a child makes you a Father, but it is your child that makes you a Dad. I am not a perfect Dad to say the least, but I am trying; that is all we can do.

I could continue on with this list of what it means to me to be a Dad, and perhaps one day, I will, but these are just my experiences. As I stated, each Dad is an individual, and these statements may not apply to you, but as a Dad, we each have a list within us of what being a Dad entails. Allow me to sum up all of these potential lists…

To Be a Dad Means to Just Be There – Be there for your kids, whenever, wherever, and however they need you. A Dad is a Father, but a Father is not necessarily a Dad. Strive to be a Dad.

 

Marriage v. Dating

You have to walk carefully in the beginning of love; the running across fields into your lover’s arms can only come later when you’re sure they won’t laugh if you trip.

— Jonathan Carroll 

This is an incredible assessment of what marriage truly is. For all intents and purposes, “the beginning of love” as Mr. Carroll mentioned, is dating. Walking carefully is, in fact, divulging things about yourself just a little at a time so as to not scare the living poop out of this lovely, unsuspecting individual and thus ending the relationship…or at least creating some exciting obstacles to overcome. For our story, we will concentrate on the man wooing the woman. It is incumbent upon men to portray themselves as both Mike Brady and Magic Mike all at the same time. We are expected to be Mr. Wonderful, when in fact this a-hole doesn’t even exist. I chose to go a different route with my lovely wife during our courtship. I decided to perform the daunting task of being myself. I realized that the only way to find “the one” was to just go ahead and let her know what she was getting into. This vetting process has proven to be extremely efficient and effective.

We dated for nine months before I decided to ask her to be my wife…to which she replied in her most romantic vernacular, “I knew it!” I actually had to remind her that she had not actually answered the question, and I was a tad vulnerable awaiting her response. Come to think of it, I am not sure if she ever officially answered the question. Oh well, maybe she is still thinking it over. We had an incredible wedding. Everyone we knew was there to witness and celebrate this love that could only be captured in a Nicholas Sparks book (I have yet to figure out why he will not answer my emails).

Our romance has continued just as before we had exchanged vows. As time has gone by, I have come to realize just how happy I truly am…initially, this came in the form of an extra 30 pounds. Now that is happy. This was the life I had dreamed of, and I made it my mission to ensure her dreams came true as well. That is what marriage is about, right? There are also a few other things that marriage means in addition to the realization of hopes and dreams; allow me to elaborate.

I believe Neil Diamond (a musical god) and Barbra Streisand captured this first element of marriage perfectly in the ballad, “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers”. Unfortunately, flowers, cards, letters, poems, and other similar affections go by the wayside in marriage. This should not be the case, but it is. I am guilty of this as well. I was a flower and letter machine when my wife and I were dating. Randomly, I would send flowers with a nice note or poem attached – this has ceased, for the most part. I do try and remember to do such things, but in marriage, practicality takes over romanticism at some point. “Do I really need to spend this money on a flower arrangement or can I do something else with the money…like pay for car insurance for the month.” “Is it necessary to spend $8 on a greeting card from Hallmark that is so generic that it is mass-produced, or should I buy the good beer tonight?” These are questions that a man must wrestle with. Here is what I will say, “I would buy flowers, but flowers wilt and die, and that is not a valid representation of our love.” Genius. Problem solved. Neil should look at Barbara and say that. Moving on…

When you are a man dating a woman, it is customary for you to pay foreverything. At least, this is how I was raised. Open doors, walk in between her and the street when on the sidewalk, defer to her choices. I still do some of these things. I open doors for her (although this has been relegated to date nights). I always walk on the street side of the sidewalk. And, once in a while, I let her choose what we do (except movies – she has lost all rights to this). As far as paying for things, we pay now, not me. We both have full-time jobs and we both make financial decisions together – even down to going out for lunch. That is definitely a change from dating. It is our money now.

While we are on the subject of money, let’s take a look at the concept of money. Marriage makes you frugal. There is no need to spend hundreds of dollars on a night out, or a birthday gift for that matter. Of course there are special occasions where this is still called for, but they are few and far between. While we were dating, we would eat out every night. Now that we are married, we question whether or not we should go to Starbucks due to the financial ramifications. “Do we really need to spend an entire $3 on a cup of coffee?”

When you pick up your date for a nice night out, your car is spotless. It is vacuumed, washed, and waxed, every time. When you are married, your car resembles what can only be described as Hoarders on Wheels. You invariably have to throw all of the crap that is in the front seat into the back seat just so your wife can get in (after she opened her own door). By the way, the fact that you are taking the time to throw these things in the backseat now falls under the category of “thoughtfulness”.

In dating, there is a sense of mystery – the unknown. When you are married, not so much. At this point in our life, nothing is sacred. We all know when we are dating someone, at some point, the flatulence barrier must be breached. Regardless of the individual that breaks down this wall, it is a huge embarrassing step in a relationship. This is odd considering everyone farts. Unless you have a medical condition that prevents this, everyone farts. You fart, she farts, your parents fart, your kids fart, the neighbor farts, everyone farts. My advice – get this out of the way as soon as possible. I am not going to say who broke the seal in our relationship, but it was a welcome relief when it happened. After this has taken place, farts start out as cute and funny. Within a month you are lifting your cheek to aim and performing the Dutch oven on each other. True love. At this point, you begin to wish the breach had not taken place, but there is no going back. Unfortunately, you can only move forward.

Moving forward refers to the comfort level that is now present regarding bathroom breaks. I have had numerous conversations with my wife while one of us is sitting on the throne. I would like to tell you that these took place through a closed door; I really would like to tell you that. I think sitting on the loo is a moment that a person achieves clarity which leads to better talks and wiser decisions. You are there in all your glory with nothing to hide. While dating, the bathroom door is always locked even if you are just washing your hands. There was the thought, “is he/she washing his/her hands, peeing, or dropping a deuce?” And if he/she is dropping a deuce, is that wrong or disgusting? Everyone poops. Now, after being married, it is not uncommon in my house to hear, “I gotta go take care of business.” It is a little cleaned up, but it still means take a dump. This is now an event that warrants proclamation for some reason. Just another way to showcase our open communication policy; isn’t that what married couples strive for?

Some say that I should tell you that we still do all the same things that we did when we were dating, but that is not true, and I think that is a great thing. I understand that there is an element of romance when dating that should remain constant, but this is not an easy task – especially with kids. I promise to work on this. But, I love the fact that we have grown together so much and we know each other so well that we have become one entity rather than two individuals. Everything we do, we do together. Whether it is discussing the financial implications of a late night Taco Bell run or battling through our struggle to have children, we handle these things together. With all the challenges that marriage brings, it supersedes these with incredible gifts that we cherish forever. My dreams and your dreams are now our dreams and we will do everything we can to make sure we see these dreams come to fruition.

Happy Anniversary. I love you.

 

Canis Rabidus

Let me tell you about my dog, Brodie. Brodie is a dog that my wife and I adopted approximately 9 years ago. My wife had already gotten “her dog” a year earlier. My wife’s dog’s name is Sam. Sam, to say the least, is a tad neurotic. I only mention this to illustrate my rationale for choosing my dog. When we went to the pet store for my dog, I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted a fat dog that was reluctant to exert any energy whatsoever. I felt this was the perfect complement to our spaz, Sam.

We got to the store, and I immediately saw Brodie. His presence grabbed my attention because for a minute, I thought he might actually be dead. As I saw him make every effort to complete the arduous task of completing a single breath, I knew that this was the dog for me. I immediately pointed to the comatose canine as if I was actually 5 years old, and looked at my wife, and said, “I want that one.” And so it was done. We drove home that day with my narcoleptic friend. Best that I can recall, I am pretty sure he pissed all over the car without even stirring from his slumber. This was the perfect dog for me.

Brodie, for as long as we have had him, has been known as the fat, lazy one. Sam - still the spaz. It is like ying and yang. But, like any other people (or animals) that live together, they began picking up each other’s habits. Mainly, Brodie began picking up Sam’s habits. This transition has been detrimental to my home and belongings. Apparently Sam has convinced Brodie that destroying things is socially acceptable, and - from what I can tell from his lack of remorse - fun. Sam has been known to destroy carpet, walls, and he has even eaten a basketball-sized hole in a mattress. All the while - I presume - Brodie has watched…and learned.

We have been in our current house for about 3 and a half years now. Brodie has ripped down the crawl space door, ripped off all of the insulation on the duct work, and separated said duct work. This, as you can imagine, resulted in thousands of dollars in repairs and energy bills. This cannot be my dog; mydog is fat and lazy, right? Brodie has recently developed a fear of storms as well. This was not always the case. I am convinced that Sam has been tormenting Brodie during storms to the point of instilling unwarranted anxiety inmy dog. This phobia of thunder and lightning has resulted in more home repairs…namely doors.

Ogden Nash said, “A door is what a dog is perpetually on the wrong side of.” I am pretty sure Mr. Nash knew Brodie. Invariably, these horrifying storms take place when we are not at home. So, as these storms are taking place, Brodie attempts to find sanctuary in our guest bathroom downstairs. This is fine, except that he somehow closes the door behind him every time and panic ensues. This is a transcript of his thoughts on one fateful, stormy day…

Click

“What…what was that?

He turns around –

“Dammit! What do I do now? First, I am going to bark incessantly in the hopes that my friend Sam will decide to descend the stairs, grow opposable thumbs, and offer me assistance with my plight…yeah, that sounds good. Here it goes.”

10 minutes later…

“Nope, that didn’t do it. What is the next step? I know, I can try and fit under that small gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. That makes perfect sense. I think if…I…get…low enough, I can…”

7 minutes later…

“I thought for sure that would work. Hmmm. I guess I can wait here patiently for my loving owners to return home and open the door to restore my freedom. I know they love me and they will definitely do this for me. I am sure they will be here soon. It’s really not so bad in here. There is a nice cool floor, a small rug to lay on, an endless supply of water over there in that white bowl. I think I am good.”

17 seconds later…

“Get me out of this HELL! Why would they do this to me?! I started to drink out of the bowl, and I am pretty sure someone forgot to flush! I am also convinced that little boy pissed all over the floor and rug! I am not lying in that! I have better aim than that kid! I have got to get out of this urine-soaked tomb! Screw it! I am just going to have to eat the door!”

And that is what he did.

Brodie has, to this date, eaten 3 bathroom doors. We have thought of different ways to prevent this from happening, but somehow, someway, something happens and he ends up in the bathroom on a stormy day when we are not home. Canis Rabidus is Latin for Crazy Dog, and that crazy, door-eating dog ismy dog. Of course, there are people that say, “I’d get rid of that damn dog,” every time I tell them about our most recent adventure, but, in all actuality, he is now our dog, and we will never get rid of him.

 

Pride

I know that Pride is wrong. In fact, it is a deadly sin…deadly - wow. That is a little strong if you ask me, but alas, no one asked me. I digress. There is a reason that I bring up the term “pride”. I am a father of two wonderful children. My daughter, Hannah, is 5 years old, and my son, Alex is 2. They are my greatest accomplishments. They are everything I could have hoped for when my wife and I decided to procreate. When I look at them, I get the urge to pat myself on the back and say, “Good Job”. Unfortunately, this feeling falls under the category of pride, and therefore is wrong. That sucks; I want to be proud, and dammit, I am going to be. 

I think of the times that my daughter has been on the stage performing a dance routine that in all actuality is awful and I should be more embarrassed than anything, but, for some reason, I am proud. I am proud of her movements that have nothing to do with the rest of the group. I am proud of her random, vacant stares into space when she should be bending, bowing, or prancing. I am proud that we chose not to paint her face like a street whore clown. I am proud of my daughter at this moment.

I think of my wife and how she keeps the family together. Without her being the glue, we would all fall apart. I am proud of her for this. I am proud that we went through trials and tribulations to get these children that we love so much. I am also proud (and appreciative) that she puts up with me and supports me in whatever I do. I am proud that she has resisted the urge to strangle our delightful little joys when they put us through their little tests.

I am proud of my son. He is only 2 years old, but he has been through more than most people will ever experience in a lifetime. He has made it through a heart condition that required open-heart surgery. This was a traumatic event, to say the least, but he made it through, and he is proud as well. I am proud. As he is young, I am proud of the future with my son. I look forward to the sporting events that he will participate in, and I am proud of what he will accomplish even though it has yet to happen. I am proud of how he will most likely follow in his sister’s footsteps in that he will wander around the soccer field aimlessly picking flowers. He will not have any idea what is going on most of the time, but he will know to kick the ball somewhere if it should come to him. And, he will stare, without purpose, at nothing at all. 

This brings me to my shining moment with my son. Forgive the “that’s my boy” moment, but it really is something to be proud of. Yes, he has made it through heart surgery, he began speaking at an early age, and he is even beginning to read a little, but there is one time that made me metaphorically shed a tear for my son’s accomplishment. You see, we are potty-training at this time and it is definitely an adventure with a boy. I had my son on the toilet taking care of business, when he looked at me with eyes of great concern and wonderment, and he said, “Daddy, I have to poo-poo.” Here we go. I knew, after traumatic experiences with my daughter that I should be prepared for the worst. I looked at him and replied, “Don’t worry, son. We will get through this together” as if we were actually speaking of destroying a meteor in the movie Armageddon. I was proud of him recognizing that he needed to go on the toilet and did not need to further defile his Mickey Mouse underwear. “Breathe,” I said. “Push,” I said. His toes began to wiggle and curl. We were past the point of no return. This was happening. As he was pushing, I couldn’t tell if the look on his face was one of pure terror or overwhelming excitement. His eyes were wide and his mouth was in the shape of what appeared to be a smile. There was now emotion involved in this process (I just didn’t know which emotion). He looked at me, “It’s coming, Daddy.” Yes, I felt like an OB/GYN talking to a mother in labor; except in this case, the “mother” was my son, and the “baby” was a turd. He lifted himself off the seat and began to perform, what looked to be, dips. After seeing this, I am quite certain he could probably tackle the rings exercise in gymnastics with no problem. He pushed and pushed to the point that his face shook uncontrollably, and I was fearful that he may pass out right then and there. Regardless, we were getting through this dump.

As I saw some relief and happiness return to his face, I knew the end was near…no pun intended. I was proud. He had done it…We had done it. We were both proud. We cleaned up and I took him off the throne, and as all men do, we looked. We looked at the poo and then looked at each other, and then, back at the poo. There was no other feeling in that little den of success than that of pride. He looked at me and said, “I did it, Daddy!” He looked down at the trophy, and in amazement declared, “That is a BIG poo-poo!” And, indeed it was. My son, at the age of 2, poops like a man…and I am proud. We flushed together as if we were turning the key to launch a torpedo out of a submarine. The toilet was officially clogged. As the waters rose in that great white basin, so too did my unabashed pride in my son.

So, Pride, albeit considered a deadly sin, is nothing to be ashamed of.