Father Rants – finanigans

Further Flummoxed Father Rants

Just in time (or not) for the holidays, I’m here to celebrate with that time-honored tradition of being a Scrooge, a Grinch, and an overall Grumpy-Pants. As the old saying goes, “It’s that special time of year when we can all gather around a dead tree in front of the fireplace and eat candy out of socks…” or something like that. Bah Humbug. Actually, I love Christmas. It’s my favorite time of the year. Except for days when I eat ice cream. Those are also my favorites. They’re all my favorites, but some are more my favorites. But these bim-baffled, befuddled blogs won’t write themselves.

Long Laborious Lines

There are lines for everything during the holiday season. Lines to check out at the store, lines to see Santa, drive-thru lines to see Christmas lights, lines to get into other lines leading to lines where no one knows. I feel like the majority of my time post-Thanksgiving, pre-New Year is spent standing in lines, avoiding lines, and trying to get out of lines. I’m in a line right now! Not really; but sorta.

Hot Chocolate in Hot Florida

There are approximately two temperatures for hot chocolate: 1) insanely scalding, esophageal cancer-causing hot, and 2) gross, mushy, lukewarm. It always sounds like a good idea, but it never ends well. My kids always want some, and then we just end up with all these cups of unconsumed cocoa because we all realize, “Hey, wait a minute, it’s 90+ degrees out right now! What am I doing drinking this lava mud?”

Novelty Gifts

Don’t know what to get your loved ones for Christmas? Well, the department stores sure do have some ideas! How about some odd, random novelty items that no one ever thought they needed, nor would anyone ever buy for themselves. Here’s a box of two dozen different types of salami all for one person. There’s a 5-foot tin can of pickle-flavored popcorn. Oh, and now what about this lovely tie and belt rack shaped like a luscious mustache. Look, here’s a general rule of thumb: if you wouldn’t buy this for yourself, don’t waste money buying it for someone else. Just get them what everyone really wants: cash/gift cards. Oh, am I ruining the “fun” of Christmas? Oh, it’s not supposed to be practical? Well, don’t get offended when I donate that grenade-shaped coffee mug or throw away those sparkly, light-up Santa glasses.

Odd Number Pockets

This one doesn’t have to do with Christmas per se, but it has become a common gift. What is it with this trend of modern clothing having odd-numbered pockets? The absolute worst offenders are newer chino shorts that only have one pocket on the back right butt cheek. I can’t even find shorts anymore that have pockets for both cheeks. What about my left side? Why no love there? And I know maybe it sounds a little crazy, but when I see these shorts for sale I actually feel an intense raging inside and want to rip off every odd pocket in the store. Maybe I have some repressed trauma or unresolved symmetry issues. I don’t know. I just know I hate them, and I don’t understand them. Why oh why?

Large Public Gatherings

For the past couple of weeks, we’ve had Christmas school productions, dance recitals, pageants, church events, and other miscellaneous and ambiguously festive public gatherings. And after two years of quarantining, I can confidently say this: I really haven’t been missing out at all. In fact, I must have emotionally suppressed just how much I loathed large public gatherings until this December rolled around. Take this year’s recent dance recital which was clearly planned and produced by people who don’t have small children. The “performers” (starting at 2-3 years old) had to be there at 5:15 PM. The recital started at 6:00 PM. There was an intermission around 7:30 PM. The recital ended at… well, I don’t know when it ended because we left by around 9:00 PM. Keep in mind, our dancer only had two performances: one at the beginning of “Act 1,” and one in the middle of “Act 2.” Normally, bedtime is 7:45 PM. When were these kids supposed to eat, use the bathroom, or do anything else? I don’t know. And they had to sit with their class, and “supposedly” no one was allowed to leave early. There were nearly 40 musical dance numbers altogether and we were only there to see two! Beyond all that, whether it’s at the movie theater, school auditorium, or any other venue, I had totally forgotten how terrible large, indoor public gatherings were. I was experiencing some real phobias and anxiety as I listened to 400 people cough and sneeze to the rhythm of off-beat tiny, tap shoes. Plus, the whole arena just smelled like hot farts and discount department store perfume. And I thought to myself, “Is this what it means to be a human and live in community? I did not miss this. Can we go home now?”

Merry Christmas y’all. And a happy, smelly New Year.

Some of My Greatest Fears as a Parent

(Or: The Return of a Flabbergasted Father’s Rants)

Sure, there are the typical fears of parenthood like your child getting hurt at the playground, lost at the store, or forever psychologically scarred and damaged by my ineptitude and bungling as a parent trying to explain things like where babies come from. But other than those big fears, I also have a few smaller, what some may consider petty concerns. Nevertheless, these are some of the things that keep me up at night. Terrors such as…

Milk

I’m pretty sure that it’s a normal thing for people to become more sensitive to dairy as they get older. And as such, I recently began complaining to my wife that milk products just aren’t settling well with me anymore. I told her, “I think I’m becoming lactose intolerant because it hurts my stomach now when I eat two large bowls of ice cream at midnight.” Her response was, “Umm, no, I think it’s because you’re eating an entire quart of ice cream in one sitting.”

So insensitive those wives.

Anyways, our kids pretty much survive on milk, cheese, and yogurt alone. It’s about all they’ll consume. Well, that and donuts. We’re pretty health-conscious parents. But all that means is lots of partially eaten, leftover lactose gleanings. My wife, again always the paragon of reason, tells me that I don’t have to eat everything. Silly wives. Of course I have to eat everything! But it doesn’t mean that I’m any less afraid at the end of every mealtime.

Monkey Swings

If you don’t know, monkey swings are these single-rope swings with a circular seat (why am I explaining this to you? Just look up a picture online). They seem like a fun idea, but so are many of the devil’s temptations. Basically, these swings are very difficult to control and not at all designed for most children. If your kid doesn’t fall off mid-swing, then they’re probably hitting a tree or another child. The random chaos is so prevalent that the term “monkey swing” has basically become a euphemism for all things that were “made” for children but clearly not “designed” for children. You definitely know when someone else doesn’t have kids of their own. Infamous examples include:

A waiter/waitress bringing a scalding hot plate of food and placing it directly in front of your grabby-hand child so that they burn off their fingerprints.
A dance recital that takes place right in the middle of dinner time, lasts three hours too long, requires that the whole family stays in attendance the entire time, and in which your child is only in one number towards the end of the second act.
Rubber bath toys that don’t allow air circulation and start to grow mold after just one bath time.
Slime. While we’re at it, let’s just add Play-Doh, Kinetic sand, and all molding clays in general.

These are all “monkey swings” and they are just the worst. Also, when I was a kid, I once got in a fight with a monkey swing. Don’t ask me about what was said. But the swing took a cheap-shot at me in the mouth as I was turning around. It chipped my tooth pretty badly and knocked it up out of alignment, so I had to get braces and the tooth synthetically filled. You may be tempted to think that now I’m simply projecting my own childhood trauma onto my kids and thus perpetuating a vicious, multi-generational cycle. To that, I would say, isn’t that what parenting is all about?

Barbies

WHY ARE THEY ALWAYS NAKED‽‽‽ Can someone, anyone, please explain to me why these humanoid dolls are all constantly laying around the house without any clothes on? It’s like I live inside some sort of weird plastic, twilight zoney, Korean bath house. I know when we bought these dolls, they had clothes on. Sometimes, they even have extra apparel items. But inevitably, all the garments come off, and the rooms and hallways and byways are filled and cluttered with nudist, sun-bathing Mattel models. I mean, does this make anyone else just a wee bit uncomfortable? Can these Barbies and Kens not be designed in a more modest affirming fashion way? The worst part is that my kids are constantly asking me to put the clothes back on the dolls. So, I do. I awkwardly dress those anatomically incorrect miniature mannequins, and then not one minute later, I inadvertently and painfully step on their naked, prostrate corpses again. Why so easy to undress, yet virtually impossible to redress by the known laws of physics. It’s like some sick, psychological power game inside a control vortex.

And when visitors come over, how am I supposed to explain the embarrassing life choices happening all around? My eighteen-month-old son seems to have picked up on these bad influences because he too just wants to constantly run around the house without any clothes on. Oh, what it would be like to feel no shame.

Dangers of Being a Parent

Or “The Ongoing Rantings of a Flabbergasted Father”

Kleptomania

I’m sure we paid for those peaches and blueberries… but in general, when we take our kids to any store we have to handcuff them to the buggy (my wife says shopping cart, but I’m no prude) to prevent them from grabby grabbing everything within reach and then somehow also burglarizing somethings not in reach as well (they must have some minimal telekinetic abilities). These sticky bandits will pretty much snag anything they can get their grimy paws on. And if it’s my son, then he’ll also attempt to eat it, whatever it is.

Self-Destructive Behavior

Being a parent, especially of young children, means being constantly stressed out that at any moment your child is going kill themselves. It’s like they have absolutely no survival instincts. Oh, sure, let me climb on this wobbly chair that’s too tall for me so that I fall off and bust my head wide open. Oh, yeah, I’m just gonna run out into the street real quick while all these cars are speeding by. Oh, hey, why don’t I close my eyes, tilt my head, and spin around in circles around all these slippery papers that I just threw on the floor? Oh, are there any open flames or burning ovens anywhere? My least favorite is when they get all grumpy and have a tantrum when you’re trying to pick them up so they flail and fling their head backwards both cracking their skull and splitting your chin. It’s a daily miracle that they’re still alive.

Please Don’t Touch My Kid

There exists a sizable percentage of the general population that has no concept of boundaries and personal space when it comes to your children. Strangers will just waltz up to you and fawn over how cute your kids are while trying to touch them. “Can I hold your baby?” Umm, how about a big “No” you weirdo who I’ve never met in my life? Stranger danger; stranger danger. Besides, has no one ever heard of a little thing called Covid? Back up people. Remember to keep a full-grown bovine distance apart. Basically, if I can’t comfortably milk a cow, then you’re too close. In fact, I propose we keep the socially distancing standard around even after Covid is gone. Of all the things to hate about the pandemic, that has been one of the silver linings in my life: that I have a perfectly, socially acceptable excuse to not be around other people.

No, Seriously, Please Don’t Touch My Kid You Creeper

Case in point: the other day I took our two kids out around the neighborhood for a walk. While en route, an elderly woman was outside her home push mowing her lawn when she saw us and abruptly stopped so she could come over and talk to us. I just kept thinking, “No, no, no, why, why, why?” She bent over and tried to put her face right up to my kids’ faces. The worst part is that she was literally dripping with sweat and when she talked, the sweat would be projected from her nose and mouth out towards us. My daughter piped up and said, “Daddy, it’s starting to rain.” And I’m like, “Ugh, gross, that is not rain!” The woman then asked, “Are they twins?” I’m thinking, seriously? The girl is almost four with blonde hair and blue eyes. The boy is one with black hair and brown eyes. What kind of twins have you known? Then she went on to state, “Wow, the girl looks just like her father. But the boy, he must look like the mother instead.” For anyone that knows, first of all our daughter is adopted so she doesn’t look anything like either of us, and second, everyone knows that our son looks just like me and my wife is usually concerned that people won’t believe that she is actually the mother.

While I’m on this topic, I used to know this guy who was six and half feet tall, and he didn’t know how to discern personal space and have a normal conversation. When he would talk to you, he would always want to stand right up on you so that the only way you could speak to each other was by looking up at him and he looking down on you. I don’t know if this was some weird metaphor or power trip, but it was so annoying. Look, my point is, just don’t do this okay? Don’t randomly walk up to strangers and try to pet their kids like some puppy. And when you’re having a conversation with someone, make sure you have enough comfortable distance so that your heads can remain relatively level. And please, please, don’t touch my kids.