Sorry We Suck: An Open Letter To Our Friends With More Than One Kid

Posted by Big Daddy Paul in Daddy Stories

Dear Friends,

I wanted to apologize for a few things. Our house still smells faintly of musty cat. We generally serve cheaper wine that the stuff you bring over (we keep the good stuff and drink it after you leave.) When we dine out together, I often look at how much of a tip you’ve left, and then leave a little more, winking at the wait staff on the way out as if to say, “Sorry about my friends, but don’t worry, I got your back.”

I also wanted to take up a subject that has been coming up more and more lately. Most of you have two kids. We have just the one.  This wouldn’t seem like that much of an issue, but it turns out to be relatively important, and not in a good way. When our kids get together, our child acts as an impartial third party who is able to settle all longstanding disputes between siblings. Who is the funner child? The one who Malcolm plays with first! Who is the better athlete? The one Malcolm wants on his team! Who is the better wizard/jedi/teacher/parent/weasel? You guessed it, our boy. With every choice Malcolm makes, he sends the implicit message that one of your kids is special, and the other is a piece of shit. Sorry! When you hang with us, one of your kids is generally going to be upset.

It’s not as if Malcolm is uniquely situated as some sort of talent identifier protege. Really, he’s no Paula Abdul. He just gets to be a second vote. And when there are only three votes, the second vote is kind of important. (That’s why marital counselors are so popular!) This is what many of our play dates with you look like:

Activity is decided. For the purpose of this exercise, let’s use Malcolm’s favorite activity at school. It is a game called weasels. I’m not sure what connection he has to weasels other than the name is fun to say. So the kids start playing weasels.

5 minutes later the roles are defined and play commences. Usually there is a parent weasel and a few youngin’ weasels, sometimes there is a general weasel and some spy weasels, depending on the gender of the play date attendees. (For obvious reasons, we put the kibosh on the game that involved the Rihanna and Chris Brown weasels.)

2 minutes later, the parent weasel realizes that the kid weasels are having way more fun and wants to switch. No switch is made, and the two kid weasels begin to make fun of the parent weasel for being lame.

1 minute later, the parent weasel attacks the baby weasel and tries to find out if weasels go to heaven when they die. Parental intervention is necessary. The parents are irritated that their precious conversations have been interrupted and threaten to stuff all the weasels into a sack and smack them against the side of the house.




You might have been asking yourselves, “Why don’t you just have another kid and join the rest of us?” Fair question. (If you are insane.) Have you not noticed what a pain in the ass it is to have a kid? We went through the sleepless nights, the endless crying, the bottles, diapers and long sessions staring at the new kid, just to make sure they are still breathing. Think we’re going through all that again? No chance! Once you get in the habit of NOT wiping someone else’s anus and skin folds several times a day, you’re not really looking for reasons to go back. Also, my hoodie is nearly vomit free and I intend to keep it that way. I am told, as well, that there is something called “sibling rivalry” which does not sound very enticing and we aren’t really looking to sign up for that either.  As nice as it would be to have a back up in case Malcolm turns out to be an axe murderer, we are just going to stick it out with the one.

Slice up this pie? No way!

Slice up this pie? No way!

Plus, there is this thing called the “love pie” that I invented in order for me to get people off our backs when they kept asking when we were going to have a second kid. Here’s how it goes. You only have a certain amount of love that you can give to this world. When you are all alone, you love your TV and your favorite pair of sweats. Then, you meet someone and fall madly in love with them ( causing you to throw out those old sweats.) If you decide to have a child, you spread the love you have between your significant other and your child. When you have a second child, you must spread that love between three people instead of two, meaning your love for each of the wonderful people in your life drops by a whopping 16% when you have your second child. Not good! (If you think the Love Pie theory is a bit flimsy, the groundwork was actually laid out by a pretty smart guy named Albert Einstein. His theory of relativity can be paraphrased as “You only have so much love to give your relatives, so try and make sure you don’t have too many.” So there. It’s science.)

So friends, I am sorry that our familial arrangements are causing some grief. Why not attack this problem more proactively and get rid of the least popular kid your house? All parents say they love their kids equally, but I totally know they don’t mean it. Get rid of one of your kids and we’ll have smooth sailing from here on in. Thanks.

Truly yours

Paul and Amy

P.S. Anyone know how to get rid of cat funk?

Big Daddy Paul is guest posting!

Posted by Big Daddy Paul in Daddy Stories


Today, I am guest posting on my friend Neil’s website today. Go over and read it there, it’s a funny post. I’m not going to tell you what it’s about, but I will tell you there is some disturbing imagery involved.

Neil is a fellow stay at home dad, fellow former lawyer and fellow meat lover. Wait. Now that I think about it, he just might be a vegetarian. Well, don’t hold that against him, he still a cool guy. He started a website with more serious writing, (more serious = better.) His writing is honest, from the heart and if you ask me, utterly lacking in exclamation points. (!!!) Enjoy, people!

Ah, Crap, I’ve Become An Ass

Posted by Big Daddy Paul in Daddy Stories

I used to be pretty mellow. If we went to your house for dinner and you broke out a Manu Chao record and some bongo drums, I’d have played some mean backup tambourine. Our house was generally kept somewhere between “cluttered” and “what the inside of an irritable bowel looks like,” and I was fine with it (although I’m not sure our house guests were!)  People/friends/business acquaintances would often do things that I found annoying, but I would just smile (then blog about it later.) I rolled with the punches, generally enjoying whatever came around the bend.

Having a six year old has changed things, to say the least. In drug parlance, I have gone from pot smoking hippie (“That’s coooool dude”) to twitchy meth freak (“HOLYSHIT!HOLYSHIT!NOFUCKINGWAY!UNBELIEVABLE! HOLYFUCKINGSHIT!”) Somehow, we have fallen into a rut around here that Malcolm does whatever goofy activity he wants until I have to menace him into a) leaving b) getting ready to leave c) doing the thing that he needed to do before we could leave or d) do anything he doesn’t want to do. I swear, I have to ride that boy like a sad carnival pony to get him to do pretty much anything around here. He has very little interest in cleaning his body, brushing his teeth, picking up anything around the house, and being on time to anything. It’s like he is a little version of me, and damn it, there’s only room for one of me in this house!

Daddy, if I can't see you, will you stop yelling and go away?

Recently, I have come to the conclusion that I have become somewhat of a dick, resembling very little of the person that I want my son to think I am. This has to change! I want to be the cool dad. The dad that he brags is the most awesome person on the planet. I want to be his hero, not his drill commander. Now, he constantly asks if I am leaving town anytime soon (evidently, grandparents are a little more patient and lenient than I now am.)

The problem is, if I leave him to his own devices, everything will get fucked up. When I ask him if it is important to get to school on time he fires right back, “No. People are always late and never get in trouble.” He thinks it is perfectly acceptable to brush his teeth for five seconds and bathing is only necessary if you roll around in the muck. There are currently 200-300 stuffed animals lying around the house, I when I suggest that he pick them up, he says, “Why? I am just going to take them back out later.”

I could probably remain cool dad if this were to happen occasionally, but when it’s so many different things on almost every day, the bong is put away and the dime bag comes out. I start to twitch, my voice get shrill and I become the guy I don’t want to be. It’s like I become the Hulk, only more angry (and less fit!) One day, I will learn to get things done without beating the sad little carnival pony. That day can’t arrive fast enough because I’m starting to drive myself a little batty.

Goodbye, Frozen Embryos!

Posted by Big Daddy Paul in Daddy Stories

Those of you who know Amy and I remember that we had a hard time getting pregnant. We tried many things to get pregnant, most notably having sex with one another, but to little avail. (I can honestly tell you it is the most enjoyable thing that I have ever failed at!) As the months turned to years, we realized having a baby the old fashioned way just wasn’t in the cards for us. We were serious about becoming parents, so, instead of throwing in the towel and remaining DINKies, we opted for the horribly invasive, often painful and outrageously expensive option of in vitro fertilization. To do this, Amy had to submit to daily hormone injections, ovular extraction and finally, uterine injection. (For my part, I watched some porn and whacked off in a cup.)

We have a portrait of Malcolm at 100 cells, how cool is that? Right after this pic was taken, Malcolm murdered and ate his brother.

This process left us with a handful of viable embryos, two of which were inserted into Amy’s lady business, and one of which developed into the big bundle of joy we now refer to as “Malcolm.” We really didn’t know what to do with the extra embryos at the time, and opted to store them in a cryogenic freezer. (I heard rumors that our fertilized eggs sat on a shelf next to Ted Williams’ head, a perk I found revolting and yet, at the same time, paid extra for.) The people who operate the freezer now want to charge us $125 a month for the luxury box seats of the cryogenic freezer world, causing us to really consider what we want out of those eggs.

For a while, the embryos served as an insurance policy. We were secure in the knowledge that if something terrible were to happen to little Malkie, like not enjoying sports, we could always just defrost the backups and start over. (In case you are ever in need of a good line to give your kid extra motivation to pay attention to you, “If you don’t start behaving, we’re going to replace you with the embryos we’ve got at the clinic” works wonders!)

It now appears that Malcolm mostly behaves himself and is deeply dedicated to the following of sports. As such, those embryos are unnecessary for this family to function properly. We think the idea of having another child is completely insane, and even though some of you gladly tackle the insanity, we are perfectly content to give all our love and attention to the one kid we got. I would suspect that almost every couple that is happy with the number of children that they have would think that adding another would be a disaster. Our bar is just lower than everyone else’s (a fact made known to me prior to our marriage, when everyone tried to talk Amy out of marrying me in the first place!)

In a perfect world, we would keep Malcolm’s putative kin frozen in perpetuity. (Sentence of the year? Maybe!) The sizable fee for such frozen nostalgia, however, makes it unrealistic for us. The real question for us now, is what do we do with the eggs. Here are the options:

1. Eat them. I have been advised by the scientific community that this is a stupid idea, as the eggs have little to do with their counterparts in the chicken world. Besides, we wouldn’t have the right bacon to go with them. Nope, can’t eat ‘em.

2. Donate them to a couple. Assuming the other couple wouldn’t eat them, they would eventually turn the eggs into a baby. That’s just fucking weird, having your DNA in some other family. What if they raise the kid better? What if the kid becomes president one day and Malcolm works fast food his whole life? Or, what if it turns out that we just got lucky and the other couple had a kid that became the next Hitler, or, worse, Pat Sajak? Nope, too much weird shit, can’t let people make babies out of ‘em.

3. Donate them to science. This seems like a great idea, as early signs indicate that embryonic stem cells can be used to cure spinal cord injuries, Alzheimer’s disease and strokes. Looking up uses for these cells, however, I found that researchers are currently injecting stem cells into rat’s tails. You gotta love researchers. I know that this is the groundwork for great stuff later on, but it hardly seems worthwhile for Amy to put up with all that shit just to have it all injected into some rat’s hiney. Maybe it’s just me. If the only alternative is throwing the cells away, though, I’ll guess we’ll go with this option, however unsightly it may seem. Enjoy little rats, enjoy. We hope your tails feel better.

Even though we have been so certain about our family choices, the decision has been a little weird for us. I guess it’s because of the finality of it all. This kid is going to be our only kid. There is no longer any safety net, there’ll be no redos or second chances. (Yes, that’s now a word.) When I look at our little family, though, and think of our life together, it feels just right.