Big Daddy Paul

Hanging out with Malcolm is pretty cool, most of the time. We have adventures, play lots of baseball, and talk about things like, “John Bowker has a pickle for a head!” There are also times when, ahem, I like him less. Actually that’s a bit understated. There are times when I wish Malcolm was a dog we could chain to the fence in the back yard. Lately, I have noticed exactly when and where I feel this way, and I will relate them to you today.

First, I do not enjoy being around Malcolm when he talks about butts. I believe he knows this, and he brings out the anal chatter whenever he wants to push my buttons. The problem is, the more reaction he gets, the further down the gastrointestinal tract he goes. He’s like a stand up comedian in that respect. The absolute worst for me is when he tells me he is going to put me in his butt. I know that it’s a silly comment and I should not fear being shoved up Malkie’s pooper, but for some reason it really ticks me off. The worst part is that my diatribes sound so funny when I counsel against him doing it in the future, “If you EVER say that you are going to put me in your butt and fart me into a box again…..”

I also am pretty terrified of being out in public with Malcolm when it is past his bedtime. Like all kids, Malcolm is pretty rotten when he is tired and overstimulated. It won’t matter if you have been out and had the best day together, once his bedtime comes and goes and he is not in bed, he will turn into a bizarre alien, complete with him licking my arms, murmuring jibberish and every whine BECOMING APPROXIMATELY TEN DECIBELS TOO LOUD. He will also spend a lot of time talking about his butt, so it’s often a double whammy for me. The witching hour isn’t a time when a big bootied green lady is at her most powerful, it’s when a preschooler is out past bedtime.

I have considered your offer to change out of my pajamas and have the counter for you to consider: Eat my butt!

I have also realized that I find negotiating with Malcolm quite taxing. Most of the time, when you ask Malcolm whether he wants to do or eat something, he doesn’t just say “yes” or “no,” he brings a counter offer to the table. I submitted an offer to buy an investment property this week, and it was less complex and time consuming than negotiating with Malcolm over how many crackers he got to eat on the way home from his tee ball game on Tuesday night. Perhaps it is because the seller in the real estate transaction can’t whine and scream and throw things at you. Malcolm is an extremely hard bargainer, and he knows if he wants 10 of something, he better start the bidding at 20. As a former lawyer, I am impressed with his shrewd instincts and clever thinking, but as a dad, I am annoyed.  If you would have said that I would have a tougher time bargaining with my four year old than I did while negotiating contracts with multinational companies, I would have said you were crazy. Now, I am the crazy one.

Jack hall asks: Do you like cows?

Cows are great, but elephants are better!

I don’t know you Jack Hall, but I must say I like your style. To answer your question, cows are stupid animals who eat, fart and poop all day. So, it safe to say I am insane with jealousy. I therefore do not like cows.

Scott Wilson asks: I imagine I am supposed to know this, but what is a “rave”? (Scott is my father-in-law)

A rave is a party for young people with lights shows, loud music and rampant drug and alcohol abuse. Behind becoming a cow, it is the thing I would most like to do in my life. I don’t really see it being your scene, but then again, you may be the life of the party, provided you follow these three rules. First: wear a banana hammock and paint your entire body with glow in the dark paint. Second: Suspend your dislike of loud, pulsating music and learn to groove to such bands as “Schpongle” and “Infected Mushroom.” Third: Drop acid. It may not go especially well with your diabetes medication, but that definitely WON’T be the weirdest drug concoction at the party. So go, live free and have a good time. Let me know how it goes.

Larissa asks: How do you deal with kids that don’t follow the rules (aka act like assholes) when they play at your house?

I think this may be one of our friends using an assumed name wondering what to do when Malcolm comes over. I’ll answer it anyways. Kids who act like assholes need to be broken, like a wild mustang. After experimenting with different approaches, I have decided on the oven as my primary means of dealing with repeat offenders.  After a kid breaks the rules for the third time, I take out the shelves in the oven and stuff the kid right in there. I then get down and tell them through the window that I am going to turn on the broiler if they don’t start behaving. Older, taller kids may not fit in there, so you’ll have to double them over like a slice of pizza. After sweating them out for a few minutes, you’ll transform those zeroes to heroes.

Kramer posits the following: I am 19 years old and a freshman in college.  I have 2 roommates, one is my older brother and the other is a random senior from our football team that’s like 25 and moving out after this semester.  Recently (about the past 2 weeks) he decided to quit cleaning anything included dishes.  Half of our sink is now full of dirty dishes and the pile has spread to take up half of our counter space.  He’s lived in the house for 4 years now and is older than me, how do i tell him to pick up after himself because I’m sick of our house smelling like shit?

Kramer. At many points during my life, I have been the “dirty senior” you speak of, and I can honestly tell you that it is very important not to hurt his feelings. The slob, if frightened will nervously spray you with shit, and trust me, you don’t want that. The easiest thing to do is just give up and become a total slob yourself. You can learn a lot about yourself if you live in complete and utter filth. Will you eat garbage? How long can you go in the same underwear? Is mold really bad for you? It is time to start learning and stop cleaning. Good luck!

Great questions people keep ‘em coming!

There are parents out there that are out of control. You know the kind of parent I am talking about, eager to brag about every little thing their kid can do, even then you both know that the child is a complete mess. If their kid was ripping the head off baby seals and lighting them on fire, they would proudly note, “Did you see how well Jimmy worked the lighter? He gets that from his daddy.” I don’t mind an occasional story about new things that the kids are up to; most of the time new developments are interesting to hear about. But some parents just take it too far.

My kid knows how to stare off into space!

I feel myself joining them. Malcolm seems to be doing new and cool things every week, and I have no idea how much to share with fellow parents. Mind you, I have taken a lot of shit over the years for Malcolm’s less-than-stellar attributes, enduring nasty comments from moms when my child bites theirs, relentless heckling from my stay at home dads group about Malcolm being a slow witted bruiser, and comments from teachers like, “Weeeeellll, he’s very [pause] energetic,” as they stall to think up something nice about him. Now, he is catching up on the curve and I am not sure what sort of publicity to hand out about that.

Most of the time, I try and keep it all bottled up. While others droning on about their kid doing this and that, I try to remain quiet, not really knowing what to say. Then, sometimes quite unexpectedly, the bottle gets shaken up and explodes all over the place, usually to a person that could care less, such as when the deli counter lady at our grocery store asked how my son was.  ”My kid knows how to ride a camel! He can spell the word, ‘diplodocus!’ He’s already masturbating at a fourth grade level! Yesterday, he made veal saltimbocca, WITH IMPORTED PROSCIUTTO!!!!”

I realize when I start doing this, I have become the very thing I detest. To tell you the truth, it was much easier to sheepishly look away when people start talking about their kids, embarrassed of my little drooling biter seemingly always trying to lure the other kids around into a conversation about their butts. Excess pride in your kid is way uglier than your child being a baby seal killer. Now that I finally have some stuff to brag about, I am gonna have to learn to walk the line. Even so, he knew not to use crappy domestic prosciutto. I mean really.

Meeting Malcolm for the first time was one of the best moments of my life, ranking right up there with getting the game winning hit in the 1982 Little League championship and the first time I ever tried Queso Fundido. The kid was a spitting image of me, and I cried knowing that he was going to be every bit of the hunk that I am today. (I also cried at all the horrible names that Amy called me in front of the nursing staff, but I try not to focus on the negative aspects of Malcolm’s arrival.) Throughout his childhood, both Amy and I have marveled at the little ways Malcolm reminds us of ourselves.

At Malcolm’s tee ball game the other day, I realized that there is a downside to having your kid share your traits. Malcolm was consistently the last kid out of the dugout, unable (every inning apparently) to keep track of his hat and mitt. As his coaches yelled out wondering where he was, I felt responsible. I have the organizational skills of chicken running around without its head, and evidently Malcolm thinks this is a perfectly acceptable way to approach life. Getting us both out of the house at the same time closely resembles the chaos of a meth lab being raided by federal agents. Sometimes I wish the apple fell farther from the tree.

Sadly, this is the same outfit I wore to my prom.

I have also noticed that Malcolm shares my disdain for the fashion rules of polite society. He seems to select his outfits to ensure that every color in the rainbow is represented. Lately he has even compounded his fashion faux pas by attempting to wear as many clothes as possible each day. Today, he came out of his room  with four different sets of pajamas on. I was the same way growing up, looking like I got dressed each day by randomly selecting clothes after a bomb blew up at the clown college.

One of the more interesting ways that Malcolm is showing off my traits is the comments he makes while watching baseball games. I have high expectations for my Giants, and am quick to announce my displeasure whenever they do not meet my lofty standards. Malcolm has picked up on this, and if you watch games with him, you can routinely hear him make comments like, “What are you thinking?” or “Dude, you are killing me!” I have even gone so far as to try and teach him the razz, “Grab some pine, meat!!!” (for when an opposing player strikes out) and am eagerly waiting when he can actually use it properly. Most of the time, he butchers it, saying,”Grab some meat, piney,” or other close derivation.

My heart melts a little bit when I see my good looking little boy, sitting on our messy couch with four pairs of pajamas on, yelling at the baseball players on the TV. Yes, a melting heart, kind of like the cheese on a perfectly executed Queso Fundido.