“Are you busy?”

With the last remnants of my holiday break dwindling away, the last thing I wanted to do was whatever task Meg was about to set before me.


… I also realized it was futile to attempt to get out of it.

“Good. I need help with something for the Daisy troop.”

I thought back to last year’s Snowball Beer Pong game for Leanne’s class and braced myself.

“I need you to print something like this out for the girls.”

I’ll pause here while you scroll down and look at the picture attached to this post. I’m sure I’ll regret posting this when 2015’s “Year In Review” app comes about and highlights all of your pictures of the year and this is the first thing I’m greeted with. Last year was a severed Barbie arm, this year is the calling card for a child murderer (then again, it’s only January 4th, so there’s plenty of time for things to get worse).

“Jesus Christ, what the shit is that?”
“It’s for the girls to sign.”
“In what, blood?”
“The one online has 6 to a sheet. I need 9 copies.”

I debated for a minute whether or not I wanted to know more about this. Against my better judgement, I kept going with this line of questioning.

“What are these for?”
“For the girls to hand out.”
“To whom, the victim’s families?”
“It’s for doing… things. For a badge.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, like helping fold the laundry.”

Folding laundry was on page 7 of the list of things I thought would prompt this sort of message. But then again, the first 3 pages of ideas I had all involved the word “serial killer”.

“Don’t you think they’re, I dunno, a little fucking horrifying?”
“… maybe.”

Thankfully, I was able to convince her to let me re-create them without the bloody child hand print watermark. So to all parents of daisies in Meg’s troop, you’re welcome for saving you finding these placed in random locations around your house.


“Um… daddy?”

Ah shit.

A few months ago, I mentioned that certain child phrases have common outcomes (with a few exceptions, such as the severed Barbie arm incident I’m referring to). “Um… daddy?” is almost never good. The result is typically one of two outcomes:

  • The child is asking a question to which she already knows the answer will be negative, but incorrectly assumes laying on the sweetness will change my already made up mind.
  • The child is about to say something that is going to put me in a less than favorable mood.

Sighing audibly, I reluctantly looked up from my iPad to see what was about to ruin my New Year’s Eve. In an almost refreshing turn of events, Leanne didn’t actually say anything. She just pointed.

Emerging from the bathroom was my son. He was riding his 4 wheeler. For a fleeting moment, I was almost impressed he managed to fit it in the powder room with him. Before I could work out the Tetris behind it, I realized what prompted the “Um… daddy?” introduction.

Austin was riding his 4 wheeler into the family room. Butt. Ass. Naked.

“So… um, Austin? What happened to your PJs?”

24 hours later, I still can’t figure out just what in the hell kind of shit-ass answer that was. At 3 years old, I’m fully aware that sometimes a neuron will misfire and the child will seem as if he’s on an entirely different plane of existence. Still, I needed to get to the bottom of this.

“Ya, that’s what I’m getting at, bud. Why aren’t you still wearing your PJs?”
“They’re wet.”

I ran through all possible explanations. None were good. Resolving myself to the fact that the next order of business would be figuring out how I can make Meg deal with that situation instead of me, I continued.

“Ok, is it just your underwear or are your PJs wet too?”

Sweet merciful crap kid, pre-school can’t come soon enough. When it’s bedtime, I get a soliloquy on how Paw Patrol saved Christmas, but when I actually want information, it’s like shaking a friggin’ Magic 8 Ball.

“How did they get wet?”
“I don’t know.”

In 1983, Bill Cosby did a stand up routine simply called Bill Cosby: Himself. If you are a parent and haven’t seen it yet, seriously, you need to drop everything and go watch it. I firmly believe that a copy of it should be handed out at the hospital when you have your first child.

I couldn’t possibly do the routine justice so I won’t bother repeating the bit about all children having brain damage. I only mention it because those of you who have seen it will appreciate the situation I was in.

Try as I might, I can’t find a clever way to incorporate the massive, ass-clapping fart he ripped as he rode into the family room. I will say that he’s a Dobies, so the fact that he started laughing should come as no surprise.

And so that was how I spent the last hours of 2014: chasing my only son as he ran around the living room completely naked.