Patriarse

I don't care for boys or girls.
I'd rather hang around with the birds.
Humans only wreck the world.
They'd kill your whole family for a string of pearls.

***

Okay, I'm just going to go ahead and say it. I can't stand daddy bloggers. Can. Not. Stand. Them. Anyone who would use his child as content fodder disgusts me. Whether cutesy, sentimental or humorous, daddy bloggers should spend more time actually, er, spending time with their kids, and less time trying to gain Internest sympathy writing about them.

Anyway, enough of my ranting. I've got a funny story to tell about my kids.

So, in addition to being diametrically opposed to daddy bloggers, I am also opposed (though not diametrically) to violence. And for the record, I think that verbal and written abuse is also a form of violence, something I wish a few moronic daddy bloggers would realize. A-holes.

However, there is always an exception. The other day...oh wait, right, storyblog. I forget:

ahem

July 16, 2005
Alex watches our son Tristan, who's running through the yard trying to catch all manner of flying insects with a butterfly net. When he catches one, he empties the rainbow prey into a little plastic bug terrarium, held by his friend Noah. My daughter Naya, her 2-year-old feet taking her as fast as they can, can never still quite keep up, and is not able to inspect the treasure before the boys are off again, to the hunt.

Until the dragonfly. When the boys catch it, they stare at it long enough for Naya to reach them. And when she does, her hands take hold of the terrarium, causing the boys to drop it after a brief tug of war. The terrarium breaks on the ground.

Both boys turn on her and scold her like little parents, 'NO, Naya! BAD, Naya!. STOP IT, Naya! GO AWAY, Naya!' They continue this until Naya drops her head, standing there motionless, taking their abuse. The boys turn and kneel on the ground, trying to gather the pieces of the terrarium. Alex opens her arms, ready to embrace Naya, who she's sure will start crying and running at any moment.

But instead of crying, Naya turns around and picks up a plastic wiffle ball bat. And instead of running, she takes that bat and delivers two blows to the offenders, one to each boy's head.

THUMPA! THUMPA!

The boys run off yelling, holding their heads with their hands. Not nearly as embarrassed as they should be by the far-too-hollow sound their noggins produce. Like a couple of empty coffee cans.

Good parents have a certain skill that allows them to enjoy something like this without betraying their responsibility to instill good morals. They hide their smile and say something like, 'Hey, come on now. You shouldn't club your brother's empty head, Naya. It's wrong to give him the punishment he had coming. Now when he stops screaming like a fool, you better look sorry.'

But we're not very good parents, I suppose, and laughed about this for a good 10 minutes. I taught Naya how to 'high five.' We pointed our fingers at Tristan and made mock hollow THUMPA! sounds, while running around the kitchen holding our heads like panicked chimps trapped in a burning cage. He didn't take this very well, but he should understand that it was funny.

To us.

* * *

August 16, 2005
Trisha, who is 10 times the parent I could ever hope to be, asked a very insightful question on her blog. Paraphrased, 'Do kids know how hard you try?'

No. No they don't.

And how do I know this? Because I asked Tristan this very question:

'Hey, buddy, do you know how hard I work so that you can have a good life?'

'Yes, Dad. I love you.'

'AHA!'

See? Right there? Proof that not only does he totally NOT know how hard I try, but he's also a manipulative little liar, to boot.

'And do you know that when I was in school I lusted after Juliana Hatfield? Huh? Do ya?'

'Who's that?'

'WHO'S THAT?!? Some days, son, I don't think I even know who you ARE anymore.'