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.

Our car window. Our Honda Accord is almost ten years old, and it is starting to show signs of wear, most notably the fact that the driver’s side window is broken. Whenever I need to roll down the window and talk to someone on the street, I instinctively push the button to make the window go down before realizing that I now drive a hooptie and am one step away from having a car whose door handle is an old piece of rope. If you think it easy communicating with a parking lot attendant through a tiny crack in an open door it’s not. It’s embarrassing, and makes me mad. Sure, I could spend the small fortune it would take to fix the stupid thing, but if I did, the terrorists would win. Surely.

Pretend baseball. Everyone’s kid does something all the time that at first is kinda cute, but then starts to annoy you to the point where you wish you never stopped contracepting. For us, that is now pretend baseball. About thirty times a day, Malcolm asks who we are rooting for, and then names two teams (the most popular being the Floridelphia Marlins and the Cinfernatti Reds.) He then proceeds to run around the house pretending he is playing and then invariably tells you that the team you were “rooting” for lost by some large margin (last night the Giants lost to the Dodgers 130 to 0 and I am still pissed about it.) Eventually, he suckers you into playing catch and then actually playing the game itself, where you have to be the catcher, the umpire, and all of the other team. About the time you realize you are doing most of the work, you tell Malcolm you don’t want to play anymore, which leads him to start whining and forces you to look into a full time nanny.

The stuff in our house. Our house is in a state of disarray which leads guests to the conclusion that we are about to be featured on an episode of Cops. There are piles of shit everywhere and I fear there may be small rodents lurking about in them. I would get rid of the piles except for the fact that I have no idea where to put anything. So, most of the stuff in our house eventually makes its way to our office, which has the same role as the dead pile on a farm. Every year or so, I clean the office and promise that it will never get that bad, making Amy roll her eyes before turning her head at the rustling from the pile of papers in the corner. Most of the time, she utters, “Damn Varmints!”, and I am not sure if she is referring to the rodents or me.

I can't even see my feet anymore!

My boobs. I have the boobs of a perky high school freshman and if I don’t make any changes soon, I will one day be the prom queen. (I should also be quite upset at my muffin top of a belly that allows entire knit sweaters to lurk in my belly button instead of mere clumps of lint, but I can’t get past looking at my rack in the mirror. Yowza!) There are some people who “work out” by going to a place called a “gym,” but those are the kind of people who having working car windows, love playing with their kid, and don’t live in mortal fear of the accumulated stuff in their house. I am not that kind of person, but one day I hope to be. Until then, when you see me constantly moving so that you never get a profile shot of  my “Heavage,” you’ll know why.

What’s annoying you?

Actually, having read that I change my mind. There is an “I” in Yosemite. There is also a “me,” (spelled backwards) which means that you won’t be hearing about all the natural beauty of Yosemite on our recent trip there. No, you’re going to hear all about me and the wonderful choices I make in life.

The first wonderful choice I made was to skip buying gas outside the park. I am not a brave man, and can easily see myself wetting my pants in the face of real danger, but for some reason, I love to test the limits of a tank of gas. Besides my love of fried food, binge drinking and the occasional murder of a postal delivery worker, it is my only vice. It also explains why we have run out of gas as often as we do (no fewer than three times in the last two years!)  Our trip to Yosemite was no different, and although I had ample opportunities to stock up on gas prior to heading into the wilderness area, we found our arrival at our Yosemite cabin greeted by the “You’re out of gas” beep from the car and no way to make it to the nearest gas station. We called AAA, and had to pay nine dollars a gallon to partially fill up the tank, but honestly, I haven’t learned my lesson. I will test the gas tank again someday…

The next wonderful choice I made was to not have an 18 month-old baby. There were a number of toddlers with us at the cabin, and holy cannoli, they suck! People say that Malcolm was once that age and I have a number of pictures of Malcolm documenting it, but I must have blocked it all out of my memory. For good reason, too, as they are constantly stumbling around trying to either kill themselves by falling down stairs or eating something terribly dangerous. Of course, if you have the temerity to thwart their destructive plans, you are congratulated for your efforts by loud shrieks or even a spoon in the eye. I could have been more helpful to the toddler parents in attendance, but honestly I couldn’t think of a way to placate the little monsters. I don’t know how we survived toddlerhood, but I am glad we never, ever have to go back.

The last choice I made was, indeed, a good one. At the last minute, while packing the car, I thought, wouldn’t it be nice if we brought our bikes and went on a bike ride together? I did some quick research on the internet and found that biking in Yosemite is a easy/fun thing to do and, even though we hadn’t really ever travelled with our bikes before, we loaded them on the back of the car and set out.

Which is larger, El Capitan, or my backside. You be the judge!

When we go to the park, we took two rides and had a fantastic time. Malcolm isn’t riding a bike yet, but we attached a jump bike to the back of mine, and we rode around seeing the sights of Yosemite, getting to see places we never would have got to if we had to walk. The really good thing is that Malcolm totally enjoyed himself and even got the hang of working the pedals. I know that this was only one event, but we all liked it so much that I think we are going to be bike vacationers going forward. Of course that will require us finding a toddler free vacation spot and actually having enough gas to get there, but at least we have plans. Big ones.