I was trying to work out the rest of the week in my head. Where I had to be, what I had to do, would Hossmom be coming home late from work and of course the zombie drill. This is where I debate which room in the house would be safest if the zombie hoard descends on us. A brilliant idea hit, the roof, that is where we must go. But I would have to have plenty of ammunition on the roof at all times. I have to put that in budget. Zombies don’t climb. I’ve seen them swim but they are notoriously bad climbers.

This is what I was doing, with my eyes closed, possibly napping, when a 4 year old toddler flew off the top rope of the couch and landed with both knees straight on my crotch. I sensed something was wrong with the force midway through his jump and my slow reflexes didn’t let me respond in time. I was lucky this time, he mostly got the top half and not the very vulnerable lower half. However, it was enough to make me jump up with an “oomph” and ask him very politely–”What the hell little man?”

I told this story to Hossmom. She didn’t believe me. She says that I tell her that I get hit in the balls alot and that she never gets hit in that region. I explain to her the nature of ball gravity. An object in flight will always change trajectory and aim for balls if at all feasible. Hasn’t she watched any soccer matches? Seriously, this is grade school stuff. She still didn’t believe me. I said she would if she wasn’t a woman. That brought on all kinds of “hear me roar, I am woman” stuff.

A few days pass. I have not been hit in the junk in that time so I’m getting a little jumpy from the impending doom that I know is coming.

I’m in the kitchen cooking dinner for the family. I time it so that dinner is on the table when Hossmom gets home. It’s one of those things that I do that insures her that I am the best husband anywhere and that she will never do any better than me and if she did, he probably wouldn’t’ have an awesome zombie plan like I do. So her very survival depends on her staying married to me.

Little Hoss is home from school and was watching T.V. before she decided to head into the kitchen and tell her dad how awesome he is. She does this often because I have trained her to think that I am the most awesome person that ever existed. I am sure she will get out of this when she is a teenager so I’m soaking up as much of it as I can.

“Dada is awesome!” she says.

“Yes I am” I reply. Why deny the truth?

“Dada is stronger than anything!”

“Yup” In her world, I am stronger than anyone because I can pick up the trash. And in my defense, we produce a ton of trash here. I am practically superhero strong.

“Dada is stronger than all the monsters!”

“All the monsters!” I say. I reassure her that dad can indeed eat monsters and poop unicorns. It makes her world safe and happy.

“Nothing can hurt Dada!” she exclaims.

“Nothing baby! Well, except when I get hit in the junk.”

You see my mistake there? My over confidence as I bask in my daughter’s adulation? I planted the idea, I have doomed myself.

Without hesitation and without missing a beat, she bitch slaps my balls.

I’m not talking about a nice gentle tap, which can still be painful. I’m not talking poor aim, hitting maybe more to the top where at least my gut has an opportunity for protection.

I’m talking about how a pimp backhands his hookers if they are holding out of him. I’m talking about how a person backhands a tennis ball. Right on target to, lower right side. Square contact, perfect follow through, perfect target tracking. She smacked clean square in the right ball. Hard.

I double over immediately. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” is the only sound I make. I stumble over to the sink to get some support before I fall over, dropped by my 5 year old daughter.

“what….”

“why….”

“dear god….”

I can’t even get a sentence out.

She starts cackling like the wicked witch of the west and runs away screaming “I got him! I got him!”

I can’t help it, I start laughing to. I have to appreciate the set up. I have to admire the entire diabolical plan to get me over confident and distracted. To make me forget that these are my children and not some fairy princess on a white pony that sits with her feet on the floor and always eats their dinner. This is my Little Hoss. Well played young girl, well played.

Sometime later and after some good quality lunges Hossmom finally gets home.

“What did you guys do today” she asks.

“Yes, Little Hoss, tell mommy what we did today.” I respond.

“I hit Daddy in the junk!” she says.

I present you with the prosecution’s star witness.

Head on over and take a read while you continue to not do any work that you are supposed to be doing. Then check Facebook.

She doesn’t put her shirt on.

Little Hoss sits at the table, eating a bagel. She has decided that she wants to be a grown up and eat grown up things. She asked for coffee, cream no sugar. She demands to be treated as a “big kid” and will eat accordingly. I’m making pot roast tonight, money says she takes one look at it and decides she wants pop tarts instead. She makes no move to put her shirt on.

“Seriously, put your shirt on.”

Nothing, no movement.

“Your bus will be here in 10 minutes and you have no shirt on. Get it on.” I don’t even know if she is aware of my presence. She has also decided today to treat me like I don’t exist, that the talking she hears is only the fates debating how much she can screw around this morning.

“Move. Don’t make me tell you again.” This dad cliche is a sign that I am starting to get exasperated. It’s a well known sign that is on several countries flags and have been written about by the great poets. Don’t make me tell you again.

I tell her again to get her shirt on. In fact, I tell her two more times. 8 in the morning and I’m already losing it and am already entering the world of fatherly fails. I clap my hands really loud to get her attention.

Slowly she turns her head and finally looks at me. Is there disgust I see there or is it just annoyance? She has some grown up looks, that’s for sure.

I speak slowly. “Move. Your. Butt. Put. Your. Shirt. On. NOW.” The last word comes out stern, an octave or two lower than my normal voice. It’s the second sign that dad means business and to disobey me at this point will cause you much strife. By which I mean of course there will be no consequences because I don’t have time to punish her, do her hair, and get her out front for her bus. By the time she gets home today, she will have totately forgotten about this whole shirt thing thus punishing her for it then just makes me out to be a dick.

She finally puts down her bagel and grabs her shirt. This is a brand new shirt, one that she picked out herself yesterday.

“I don’t want to wear this shirt. I don’t like it.”

At this point, I feel the first part of my sanity break away and tumble into the void of rational thought. Wow. I don’t even know what to say here. She loved it yesterday, swore that this is the shirt she wanted and swore that she wanted to wear this one on her first day back to school.

“Are you kidding me? Go put your shirt on now. The bus is coming and we are going to miss it. Get dressed kid, now.”

She leaves the table and I feel somewhat comforted that I didn’t totally lose my shit. I remained mostly calm, got my minion to do what she was supposed to, and didn’t kick any dogs in my frustrated. I chalk this up as a win.

She comes back down from her room with a different shirt on. It’s a short sleeved shirt, a summer tank top. I chalk this up as a lose. Another piece of my sanity falls.

“?” I can’t even get the question out.

“I want to wear this shirt.” She says and heads back to her bagel.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no” now I’m just chanting, hoping that this will center myself and not drive me to the nuthouse. “It’s a summer shirt. Go get the shirt your picked out, that your mom picked out, quit dicking around and go put on your shirt. The bus will be here in 5 minutes.”

“I don’t like that shirt.”

“Go put your shirt on.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Now”

“It’s not pretty.”

“It is pretty.”

“No”

“Yes”

“No”

“Yes”

I am debating fashion with a 5 year old. I have lost and it’s not even 8:30 yet. I realize at this point that I am parenting wrong. Never debate with a child. Listen, understand, then give marching orders. And my orders are clear, GO PUT YOUR GOD DAMN SHIRT ON NOW.

“Turn around and go upstairs. Get your shirt. Put it on. Come back downstairs. Put your jacket on. Go wait for the bus.” Slow speech, deliberate and clear instructions. No room for interpretation. Do it. Now. Do it. Now.

She heads back up stairs while I’m telling her to hurry up, we’ve got about 2 minutes before the bus comes. This time she actually listens to me knowing that the next step after the deliberate instructions I will lose it completly and no one wants to see a grown man cry.

She comes back downstairs. She has the right shirt on. She is pouting but I don’t care at this point, we are moving, we are in a forward direction. We don’t have time for distractions. She puts her jacket on. I’m feeling good. I was at the brink, looking at the abyss on the other side. It’s not a good place for me to go. I’m supposed to realize when I’m getting to that point and then back away. I’m not supposed to parent “emotionally”, I’m supposed to be calm and consistent. I learned that at the Dad’s convention that I go to every year.

“Ok, let’s go.” I step through the door to head outside.

“Dad.” She says, grabbing her bagel and still waiting for her coffee.

“What?”

“I don’t have my socks on.”

I look at her feet. No socks. No shoes. Just hippie feet that can’t step out in the 30 degree cold weather.

This is where I believe I had my first ever stroke.

Hossmom says the steak was good and the conversation was interesting. She goes on for about 10 minutes about the salad though and how she imagined that at such a high end place that the salad would be better. And the wine was ok and at 15 bucks a glass she thought that she would enjoy it more. But the breadsticks were good. “What about the steak I ask her, any good?” She looks at me, trying to gauge my reaction. She is hesitant to say anything because she knows that my dinner probably consisted of mac and cheese and maybe an extra piece of bologna. It’s what the kids want when she is gone and we do dinner without her. I don’t do a big extravaganza meals when she’s not here. What’s the point I ask you? Sure I could make a delicious feta stuffed chicken breast smothered in a tomato basil sauce. Will the kids eat it? Nope, but they will still chow down on the dog food from time to time because they are that high class.

Hossmom breaks down, she can’t contain herself. The steak was awesome. Each tender piece that entered her mouth was like a kiss from the gods. The juices that ran clear dabbled on her chin while she made cheesy marketing jokes. For the record, I have listened to these marketing jokes for 15 years. They are not funny, outside the marketing world. Sorry, I just don’t think they are funny. I’m sure that jokes about focus groups and product demographics are a god damn riot at the marketing departments world wide, but outside of that, please, all of you, stop.

As Hossmom talks about the steak it’s almost like she quivers and I’m pretty sure that if our state allowed a meat/human marriage, she would jump all over it. She finishes telling me how good the steak is, almost out of breath. She is a bit flushed and her fingers linger over her mouth. Sadly she looks at me, like remembering some past love and is disappointed that she settled for me, a non steak. She informs me that she couldn’t bring any home. Apparently it’s considered bad form in the business world to ask for a dogie bag at an expensive steak restaurant. Telling marketing jokes is apparently fine though.

She touches my hand as she reads my expression, she is sad for me, she is trying to be compassionate. It’s almost like I told her my grandmother died and she is trying to console me. She leans to give me a kiss.

She has misread my expression, my body language.

It’s not sadness in my eyes that she sees, it is not jealousy.

It is pity. Deep pity for Hossmom, you ignorant bastard.

For tonight, while Hossmom is gone yet again showing clients a good time, and not in a illegal prostitution way as that sounds, I did something special.

I introduced the kids to Star Wars.

Han Solo, Luke Sky Walker, the Princess chick in a gold bikini. I showed the kids everything. We made a tent on the floor. We gladly ate our mac and cheese, garnished with parsley to add that gourmet feel, under our tent. And then we started the story that happened a long, long time ago in a galaxy far far away.

While she was listening to marketing jokes and assuring future clients that their concerns where her concerns, the kids and I were rocking the popcorn while we screamed when Darth Vader made his entrance. Everything about this was awesome. I got to explain what the force was and what a force choke was. I explained what a Wookie was and we all practiced the Wookie yell. We got our light sabers and did epic battles, leaping from the couch to the chair. Making laser sounds that always seemed to ricochet off the intended target and hit a wall instead.

I showed them the bloopers and in depth stuff like when the storm trooper bangs his head walking into the room for R2D2 and C3PO. And yes, we love the robots. We loved everything about the robots. We loved the blue, we loved the gold, we loved the silliness. There were no marketing jokes told here, the force does not allow marketing jokes to be told in this world.

And my version of steak? The best steak you have ever tasted? The steak that makes other steaks look like pieces of bile left on the floor by the cats, who are on the dark side of the force by the way. I had to explain that to the kids.

My steak was the moment when Darth Vader tells Luke that he is Luke’s father.

I watched my kids during the scene. They were riveted, they were not moving. They hugged their blankies and sat 2 inches from the screen. And boom, Vader is Luke’s father.

Littls Hoss’s jaw dropped. She didn’t say anything. She whipped her head quickly around and looked at me. She wasn’t sure she heard that right, how can Vader be Luke’s father? That’s not right? Is it?

Bubba Hoss’s face crinkled as he tried to process the information. “Father? Like my father?” he seemed to think. Surely not!

If you have never been at that moment when this bombshell is revealed to people who don’t know it’s coming, especially little kids, it’s as amazing as it was the first time you heard it. I highly recommend it, it goes good with a Cartier 1945, a little known winery in the south of France. And mac and cheese.

Once the initial shock was over the questions came in a flood that Noah wouldn’t know how to navigate. How is that possible? Is he lying? he must be lying since he is the bad guy and the bad guys always lie. Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy.

This ranks up there as one of my greatest experiences of fatherhood. It took them a full hour to calm down and then jack back up again when they met the Ewoks for the first time. We didn’t finish the third movie that night, they fell asleep. It was a big day for their tiny minds to grasp.

That was my steak, that was my moment. And Hossmom missed it as happens when one person has to work alot.

No Hossmom, it’s not sadness you see, it’s pity. Pity that your marketing jokes and subpar 20 dollar salad can never compare to Star Wars. Please don’t worry about me, I’m right where I want to be, in a blanket tent with mac and cheese and Star Wars.

We went upstairs to go to bed and Hossmom stopped to check in on the kids, who woke up a bit. Hossmom said goodnight to Little Hoss and started to walk away.

“Wait, mom!” Little Hoss said as Hossmom was at the door.

“Yes dear?” Hossmom replied.

“These are not the droids you are looking for” she said as she waved a hand slowly in front of her face. She smiled and put her head back down on her pillow.

The force is strong with this one.

Then the holidays came, of course.

But all that is behind us now, including my birthday, my annual competition with Jesus for attention. Coming Monday all new blogs are coming and we will get back on a regular posting rhythm again, nice and smooth, easy going, almost like blogging yoga. Do the dog walk.

Happy Holidays to all and will see you on Monday.

Hoss

And of course, take time to read some of the other guys that wrote for us. If not, my daughter will grab a hammer and find you. Your knee caps aren’t easily repaired. Keep that in mind.

Click here for the newest post.

I am thankful that I have a roof over my head, good food on the table and a dog that sounds great barking but is actually a massive wuss.

I am thankful that Lindsey Lohan is doing playboy. I am thankful that alcohol exists and so do hot idiot celebrities.

I am thankful that my children no longer eat dog food.

I am thankful sports exist and that the NBA is on a lockout because I hate professional basketball.

I am thankful that some weird old guy showed up my house and asked if he could pick up all the black walnuts from my backyard. I am also thankful that he didn’t ask me to join in any weirdo reindeer games that he would be playing with those walnuts. Naked.

I am thankful that winter is here and everyone’s yard looks like shit now because it’s all dead. I am thankful that I don’t talk to my neighbors more because that may not turn out to well given the state of my yard the last couple of summers. Which reminds me to be thankful when cities give out water restrictions so no one can water their yards so now it looks like mine. I win.

I am thankful that Hossmom has a job she loves and gets to travel to cities that she finds interesting instead of other cities, like Cleveland.

I am thankful that Cheetos’s come in handy little lunch sizes so that I can easily steal them from my daughter without them really noticing anything is gone.

I am thankful that my fat dog eats all the food that the kids drop from the table with the exception of broccoli which I can’t really blame them for.

I am thankful that for Dear Abby because every time I read it I am assured that there are way more weirdo people out there that have way more weirdo problems than I do.

I am thankful of new tires because that it was all old men are thankful for because it shows that even though life has beaten us down, new tires are always cool.

I am thankful for leaked sex tapes and the ignorance and stupidity of the people that do them.

I am thankful for jilted ex boyfriends. No relation to the above mentioned thankful topic. Maybe a little.

I am thankful that there is such a thing as a DVR and that it records sporting events that can be watched after 10 pm.

I am thankful for juice because it’s good.

I am thankful for cake because it’s better than juice.

I am thankful that someone invented a catapult and we have taken such a destructive weapon of war to now make it throw watermelons.

I am thankful for potato guns to0 as one of the top most useless but awesome inventions.

I am thankful that my wife buys all my clothes for me and that one day my daughter will grow up and do the same thing.

I am thankful the dollar aisle at the store that sells plastic crap toys.

I am thankful for turkey and the sweet goodness that will soon be heaved upon my plate in a challenge to finish it all. I am thankful for gluttony.

I am thankful that I have finally started writing that book that I kept meaning to and I am thankful that the first chapter made my wife laugh.

I am thankful that Harry Potter exists even if it is only on paper.

But most of all, I am thankful that I have found someone who “gets me”, who encourages me everyday and allows me to see her naked whenever I want.

Love is a beautiful thing, a great thing. And the physical expression of that thing on a Saturday morning is even greater. So you don’t want to permanently scar the child by screaming holy hell get the hell out why don’t you knock for Christ’s sake! You want her to one day embrace all that she is but that may be impossible after she catches her parents in the act. So in that awkward second, you have to make some decisions.

She has to get out of the room, that part is a given. If she stays, you aren’t going to be able to finish what you need to finish, which is of course expressing your love in a physical way to your wife. And your wife loves it. Oh, she will say that she doesn’t really care for a Saturday morning quickie but we all know that she is lying. I have children to prove it, one of which has just opened the door without knocking.

Your next thought is to chastise yourself for not locking the door. What kind of dumb ass rookie mistake is that? That’s what a new parent does, not a 5 year vet like me. I can only blame my wife as she decided to have her clothes off around me. I cannot be held responsible for my actions when I have breasts at eye level.

The next thought you have in that awkward moment when your child catches you having sex is wondering if your wife will let you continue after you have rectified this slight transgression. Maybe, maybe not. Nothing is quite as good a mood killer than a 5 year old staring at you while eating a poptart.

You wonder what you daughter must be thinking. Does she realize that what she is seeing is most definitely not play wrestling? And if she does think it’s play wrestling, does she realize that daddy is winning? Or is it dawning on her that Mom and Dad are “making babies” and is this going to be enough to send her into therapy next year and for the rest of her life? You don’t want her to start asking difficult questions either, such why is mom reading a magazine while you are wrestling and what’s up with Dad’s junk? What happens if she yells for her little brother to come up here and check this out. This could get worse, I could ruin multiple lives all in the span of a second. It’s doubtful that my wife will ever let me touch her again.

“I’m out of milk.” my daughter tells us and then takes another bit of her poptart. That’s what she came up with in that second of walking in the door and catching us doing what parents do. She then turns around and leaves as my wife and I scramble for the sheets.

On her way out the door, my daughter informs us that it is “stinky” in our room.

It used to be stinky a lot more often before I had children.