How Not To Dad: Episode 30 - Anger Management

​I'm not a violent person. I think anyone who knows me can attest to that. Still, going back to my pre-teen years I have occasionally exhibited signs of what we might call a "quick temper." 

I once got mad at our local Walmart and wished certain doom on the store because they were out of stock of Skid Row's newest album, "Slave To The Grind." I'd specifically planned to get the cassette tape that day and when it wasn't there, well, my whole weekend was shot.  How was I going to listen to the song "Monkey Business" now?!

I once wished destruction on a clothing store because the jeans I bought (without trying them on) were too small in the waist and too long for my stubby-ass legs. I was not only mad at the store, I was mad at my own body for not fitting in the jeans. I went on a rant, rhetorically asking the universe, "How am I supposed to buy clothes? There isn't a fat midget section in any of the stores!" 

(My apologies to people of short stature. I get that the word "midget" is inappropriate and disrespectful. In my defense I did not get that back then, in the mid nineties. I was just a dumb kid with ill-fitting pants, saying any idiotic thing I could think of in my rage. No insult intended.)

I punched a lawnmower once. 

I suppose there should be some context here, though it won't make much difference. You see, I bought a zero-turn mower when we moved into our last house. I got that puppy out and had it buzzing through the back yard one day soon after, and things were going just fine. It had rained a couple of days prior, and I had yet to learn that the very back edge of our property tends to get swampy when that happens. 

I was putting along when I noticed the mower getting a little drift every now and then. Soon afterward it just stopped in the middle of the yard. I pushed the throttle sticks forward. The mower spun in place. I got off the thing, walked around it, determined it was stuck in the mud, and figured it would be easy to push out. I put it in neutral, got behind it,  and shoved. It didn't move but my feet did. I caught myself before they slipped completely out from under me. In the mud it was like standing on ice - "slicker 'n owl shit," as some old folks say. I slipped and slid a couple more times, trying to find traction with my shoes, before I gave up. 

Then I had an idea. I found a few flat pieces of cardboard and wedged them under the tires as best I could. The idea (don't laugh) was that the tires would rotate, pull the cardboard beneath them, and the cardboard sheets would give enough traction for the tires to grab, thus propelling the mower out of the ruts it had gouged into my land. Sounded pretty good at the time.

I climbed onto the mower and pushed the throttle forward, and the carboard pieces shot out behind the mower. The mower then sunk firmly back into its mudholes. 

Up until that point I'd been pretty patient, I thought. My wife had taken to watching me through the kitchen window. My hero, she must have thought as the cardboard and mud blasted from behind the mower like it had a case of explosive diarrhea. By the time she'd walked out there to assist my ears were turning red and my eye was twitching. 

"Here let me help," she said. I figured, with a little extra muscle, I should shift back to my first tactic and try pushing it out. So, we got behind it again and started pushing. Zero-turn mowers, come to find out, are frickin' heavy, especially on their ass-end. We pushed and slipped for a minute or so before I said "Okay, why don't you get on it, give it some gas, and I'll push." Nikki climbed aboard and did just that.

What threw me over the edge is that, on that last run, not only did I NOT get the mower unstuck, I got a healthy spattering of mud across my arms, chest, and cheeks. 

I think I yelled. "MOVE! MOVE YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

By that point Nikki had gotten off the mower and was watching my feeble attempts to push it free. She helped again, but I noticed she kept giving me the side eye. And why not? I was a freaking lunatic.

It happened.

I slammed my fist down onto the motor. "Move you piece of shit!"

Nikki continued to stare at me as I pushed and pushed with my shoes slipping through the mud behind me, until I gave up. Eventually we did get the thing out but it was a grade A booger-bear to do it.

So really that's it. That's the time I punched a lawnmower. You tell me that sonofabitch didn't have it coming, though. You tell me that!

So at this point, if you're still reading at all, you're probably thinking "Why is he telling me all this?"

My friends, I think the rage has been passed down. A week ago I was sitting on my bed watching TV when my daughter, who was sitting beside me watching my tablet, started getting mad. Every few seconds she would grunt or squeal in frustration. A minute or so later I hear a CLACK!

I looked over at her. "Did you just punch the tablet?"

"It won't play my videos!" She said. The way she said it was accusatory, like she was telling on a kid at the playground.

From the corner of my eye I had seen her tapping the screen, trying to get the video thumbnail to activate. When it didn't work she made a fist and straight-up decked it.

And that's my girl. My chip off the ol' block. That's the kind of issues she gets to deal with thanks to the genetics passed down to her, courtesy of her lawnmower fighting dear old dad. You're welcome Abby.

Moral of the Story: 

Just when you think you've got a handle on your own issues you find out that your kid has them too. So, you get to deal with those issues for another 18+ years, in the form of a smaller version of yourself that still has to figure it all out. Fun stuff.

How Not To Dad: Episode 29 - Pajama Knots and the Magic of Christmas

Another Christmas has come and gone, and this one was different in a lot of ways from the previous year. For starters, we're in the midst of moving into a new house. It's an old house with a vintage look to it, and I've been told on more than one occasion that it looks like a miniature version of the Home Alone house (and I do mean miniature, compared to the mansion in that movie. Seriously, as the meme goes, what did Kevin McAllister's dad do for a living to afford that thing?). We were only partially moved in by Christmas. As a result, our tree was just a pre-lit, plain Jane tree with no ornaments on it, placed in front of a window with no curtains or blinds, in a living room with no couch in it. In fact there's not a single window in the house that is covered by curtains or blinds yet, so for now we're pretty much on display to the neighbors across the street.

Another difference is that we were actually able to celebrate on Christmas Eve at my grandmother’s house, a tradition that has spanned my entire forty years on this earth - minus one, which was last year. This Covid business has been a real wrecking ball. 

Yet another change was that this was Logan’s first year celebrating Christmas in which he knew the Santa secret. This was a little painful to me because I know what it's like to lose that magic, or at least feel like you've lost it. It didn't help that he was fairly vocal about the fact that he wished he still believed, and every time he mentioned this to my wife or me it was like a tiny little dagger stabbing our hearts. Not only is it a pivotal moment in his development, an understanding of a new and ever so slightly less cheery world, but it's also a reminder to us (as if we needed any more reminders) that he's growing up. A little piece of his innocence was chipped away, and now his whole world is different.

There were two things that made me realize it was going to be okay for him. One was that he became really enthusiastic about hiding the Elf on the Shelf, which Abby had christened "Jimmie," and in my little Christmas-spirit heart I knew that Logan was already taking up the reins and being his own version of Santa, just as we did as parents. He wanted to hide the Elf so Abby could wake up every morning excited to see where he’d moved, just like Logan had done in years past. The other thing he did that made me realize he was fine was that as soon as he walked into the living room on Christmas morning and saw the presents under the tree, he walked back over to his mom, hugged her and looked at me, and whispered "Thank you." Now, I didn't want a thank you. Let me be clear about that. What that gesture meant to me was that he'd accepted "Santa" for what he was, and that he was moving on with his new understanding.

I always wonder if we're doing the wrong thing teaching our kids to believe in the magic of Santa Claus, only to pull the rug from under their feet years later (usually before they're truly ready). After this ordeal with Logan I feel a little bit guilty explaining to Abby when she asks how the elf moves around at night that "he's magic, he flies," or that Santa is going to come down the chimney with a sack full of toys for her and her brother, or that reindeer fly, or any other Christmas magic story we tell our kids to make them happy. In the back of my mind I know that day is coming when I'll have to tell her the truth, and I know that will break her heart as it did Logan's.

I think of that stuff and feel guilty. The other side of me, though, remembers believing in that magic. I remember thinking Christmas was always the most exciting time of year, a night when true magic exists. I can't help but wonder if that fascination and passion we had as kids doesn't carry into adulthood, even after we've stopped believing in the traditional Santa Claus story. Maybe the magic we felt as kids is substituted for time with our families, and that same joy born of childhood magic idles within us because we're surrounded by the ones we love. Maybe we're manufacturing magic of our own, and we couldn't do it so easily if we hadn't believed in it as children. 

Well, there's my reflections on the Christmas season. Now onto the funny stuff...

I had managed to steer clear of the whole "matching pajamas" craze over the past few years, but this year it finally got me. My wife bought a family set from Walmart with the Grinch plastered all over them. I stood there as she rummaged through the different sizes, and all I could think about was how clingy pajamas used to feel when I was younger, like they were always too small.

I'm a hefty fella. Clingy and hefty don't mix. I fit solid and comfortable into an XL size in most clothes (except for clothes ordered from overseas, where an XL is really like a Medium in U.S. terms. I guess we really are some tubby sumbitches over here). Knowing how thin and elastic pajamas usually are, I advised my wife to search for a 2X size. She found it.

The plan, my wife informed me, was to put them on Christmas Eve and take a picture in front of our naked Christmas tree. When we got home from my grandmother’s house that night I realized it was time to “don we now our gay apparel” (Fa la la la la la la la la). 

I was hoping for a slightly baggy feel when I began to pull the clothes on, and the shirt was just that. A little too big, but fine. Comfortable even. It was when I unfolded the parachute that was the pajama pants that I realized I was going to have a problem. Apparently sometime between 1989 and now, pajama companies realized how small their clothes were and began oversizing everything. When I put these pants on it felt like I was wearing a garbage bag. It's been a while, but I don't recall ever needing a belt before when wearing pajama bottoms. They were so big that I literally could have fit in them twice. 

When I showed Nikki she sighed. "Logan's don't fit either. His are too small." As she said this Logan stepped into the hall where we stood and he looked like a sausage link about ready to burst through its casing. He didn't seem to care though.

Standing there with my knees out to hold up my pants, I landed on an idea. "Check this out," I told Nikki. 

You know those shirts 80’s girls used to wear that are tied in a knot on the side, usually exposing a little midriff? Did you know you can do that with oversized pajama pants? I may have created a new fashion trend that Christmas eve. By God it worked, though! I tied one side up in a knot and voila! Instant fit. The knot was a little difficult to negotiate but I made it happen. 

Anyway, we all sat in front of the tree and the kids opened a couple of presents from us. Somehow I got out of having to have my picture taken with the family in front of the tree. Not sure why. It couldn't have been because my pants looked bad. In the end I think Nikki was jealous of my pajama-knot fashion statement and didn't want it to catch on with the rest of the world. She’s always holding me back....

But I digress. That's not even the good part. After we put the kids to bed we proceed with the Santa stuff. I had migrated all the gifts from our bedroom closet into Abby's room at the top of the stairs. She and Logan were sleeping in our bedroom with us at the time. The house is big and empty and they weren't used to it yet. Well, we begin lugging the gifts downstairs. I'm on my second run, and about halfway down the stairs, when I feel something shift on my pants.

They get loose.

"Oh no." I say, and feel the knot in my pajamas fully give way at about the same time. 

The pants start to fall.

My arms are full, and I'm on the stairs. 

At the foot of said staircase is the front door, and like all the windows in the house, the window in the front door is sans curtain. My neighbor's house is directly across the street, a mere thirty yards away, facing the front door. 

I go into crab mode. I spread my knees in hopes of holding up the Hammer pants at least until I get down the stairs. I waddle a few more steps down, and finally realize there's no use. The pants are falling down and the more I try the worse it gets. With no trick left in my arsenal, I just do what has to be done. I simply walk out of my pants. The waistband hits my ankles, exposing my underwear to the neighbors. I move as quickly as possible while trying my damnedest not to drop all the presents and wake the kids up. Had they been looking, our neighbors might have gotten a gift they didn’t ask for this Christmas.

We finally got all the presents under the tree, after two midnight runs back to the old house in my oversized pajamas. Ever the fashionista, I tied the knot back and continued to wear the Grinch pajamas until Christmas morning. All in all it was a year to remember, for my family and for whomever might have been looking the wrong way on that cold, clear, magical night.

Moral of the story:

Christmas magic is real. Sometimes Christmas magic is a childlike belief in a story of a man who lives at the North Pole and brings toys to all the kids on Christmas Eve. Sometimes Christmas magic is the joy you feel when you share time and laughter and smiles with your loved ones. And sometimes Christmas magic is a view through a window of your half naked neighbor hobbling down the stairs like a crab with his arms full of presents, trying desperately - and failing - to hold his pants up and keep at least one single shred of dignity. Whichever magic you subscribe to, it's all pretty spectacular in its own way.