Pops

A good friend of mine credits the release of Michael Jackson's Billie Jean for the evolution of deadbeat dads as we know them today. Lucky for me, my dad became my dad prior to the song's December 1982 release. So therefore he rocks.

My relationship with my dad is unique in that it's nothing like what you'd see on tv. We don't hug, he doesn't call to ask how my day was, we rarely exchange I-love-you's and when he has something nice to say to me he usually looks genuinely uncomfortable saying it. Outwardly, he is grouchy and always screaming, cussing and irritated. When it comes to most issues in life, we are on opposite ends of the spectrum. For example, he doesn't vote because "they're just gonna put who the hell they want in office anyhow, so why bother"? I dare you to argue with him. You won't win.

The funny thing is that even without a hug, without him calling to ask about my day, and without the exchange of words, I know he loves me. Which works out pretty well because of how much I love him back. My dad likes to show his love through food. If he feeds you, that's love. He actually invited us over tonight for tuna casserole. Thanks, Dad. We love you too!

When I was around six and we lived on Seton Avenue, I remember sitting on the porch with him. A bee came close to me and he clapped his hands together and killed it. That's the first time I remember thinking how strong he is - my dad, my protector. As an adult, I lean on him more than I could have ever imagined. He and my mom watched my kids every Thursday night while I got through college. When I bought my house he almost killed himself tearing down the walls in my bathroom for the remodel, and literally fractured ribs while moving in a new refrigerator. Flat tire, I call Dad. Low on funds, I call Dad. Need bail money, just kidding. But you get the point...

The reason I make note of all this goodness is because this past Wednesday, my dad's dad (Pops, as he called him) passed away at age 86. Knowing the huge role my dad plays in my life, it's almost inconceivable to watch him lose his own dad. I can count on one hand how many times I have seen him cry, so it was rough to see it this week. But it was also refreshing because good parents show their kids emotion, even when they are "the strong one".

I'm praying lots this week for my dad, all of his brothers and his sisters. We will lay grandpa to rest on Monday, September 24. May he rest in peace.

If Kids Could Cuss

When you become a parent, you ultimately find that there are unwritten laws - boundaries, if you will - that all children must abide by. The tricky part is that by being unwritten, these laws are subject to vary based on each family's individual code of conduct. For example, this means that in my home, kids are forbidden to cuss. But that doesn't mean that the little trash-mouthed bastards down the street will think twice about calling their mother a ratchet scutterbucket bitch when they feel unfairly nagged to do their chores. Value systems tend to differ, and you'll have those types of variations. It's a fact of life, folks...

What I'm quickly learning, though, is that just because my kids aren't allowed to cuss, doesn't mean they aren't cutting me down internally. By way of a cycloptic stare, flared nostrils and crossed arms, I can sense the internal dialogue. They're using the f word in formations I've never even considered, they're pairing that f word with explosive adjectives and well, I imagine it's harmonious. An f word symphony, all in their minds, all directed at me. Never to be spoken because they aren't allowed to say it. Just think it. Because my filthy-mouthed children are respectful filthy-mouthed children. #proudmommymoment (And yes, I just hash tagged that. If you can Facebook it for no reason, I can blog it. If you have an issue with it, I'll have my kid cuss you out internally.)

So today we were invited by our close friends, the Bickels (and no that's not a funny - that's seriously their name), to visit Coney Island for their union's picnic. The chance for rain was 100+ percent, but I figured that just meant shorter lines for us. So the plan worked beautifully - we got to hang with our friends for a few, we walked on to just about every ride, we got rained on but nothing too major, and for the most part we had a pretty kick ass day. Then the last 15 minutes of our trip turned into an I Wanna Kick a Kid in the Ass Day. Three of the four kids in attendance lost their damn minds and had temporary mental breakdowns. But nothing, oh nothing, topped the grand finale put on by my precious Pookie.

She decided to be queen of the island and demand that we board the Scrambler just one more time. But the rain drizzle was starting to pick up, the Bickels were becoming tired, hungry, crabby. It was just time to go. Her father and I took turns asking her to follow us to the last ride of the day, which was unfortunately not going to be the Scrambler. She ignored us, continued walking toward the Scrambler, screaming to us what she was going to do. Her dad walked over to her, bent down and said something firm, and she somehow scratched his arm. From there it got ugly and he had to physically bring her to me in a Full Nelson headlock. (Dysfunction, as promised in blog post #1.) That's when I realized that I had to take action. I delivered a life-shattering blow. "Cara, you're NOT getting on the last ride with us."

I could see the exact moment when my words connected with her brain. I think I also saw the f word spark in her left eye. She started sobbing uncontrollably, hyperventilating and repeating, "I WANNA ride the last ride! I WANNA ride the last ride!" She was definitely that kid. The one where strangers walked by, shook their heads, and then followed me to see if I was going to stick to my guns. Or maybe they just wanted to see me beat her. Either way, no blood was shed, and she did not ride the last ride. She found a close seat with which to torture herself, and quietly convulsed and cried for the entire duration of the last ride. I would venture to say she internally used the b word and the f word a lot, but mostly directed at Daddy this time. #FUDADDY!

Thank you to Jesus for the days that my angels are seemingly innocent. I know they're cussing me up and down internally, but it's because they have a trash-mouthed mother as a role model. They know not what they do. Lord help us all when My Pookie & the Brain become teenagers...

I am, however, happy to report that Cara has since apologized to me and her dad. I think it's just because there were cookies involved that she wanted, but it was an apology nonetheless. And Bob's arm scratches are healing just fine. Lastly, the aforementioned 'bastard children' down the street are not the ones who live on MY street. I feel like I should clarify in case any of their mothers become faithful fans of the blog. I'm sure your children enrich my babies' lives regularly. And for that I thank you. #brownnosing