I was made for lovin' you

I have a bad sense of humor which is why I find it extremely funny when I hear the Boy(s) sing along to this: "Tonight I wanna give it all to you...In the darkness...There's so much I wanna do...And tonight I wanna lay it at your feet...cause girl, I was made for you...And girl, you were made for me.

Is it any wonder that My Lovely Bride's biggest beef with me is what she calls my, inappropriateness with the Boy(s). For those ready to climb aboard her band wagon and start judging me, real hard, wait, it gets better. Much better.

The reason that song is top of their pops is because they saw Homer Simpson singing it (as he danced around the church in his underwear while playing air guitar on the Cross) in the Pray Anything episode of The Simpsons.

Father of the year. That's me. A guy who treats kids, including my own, the way I treat most everyone. I don't patronize them. That being said, I don't go out of my way to be their friend. Or do what I do to be a cool Dad. My reasons are much deeper than that (I won't bore you with that today.) Still, my inappropriateness can and will often bite me in the ass. Like the time I told them about Bloody Mary (note the told them part, I didn't have them do, I told them the story and how it works so they would know the real deal and not be scared by their friends in the future.) That back fired hard. My Lovely Bride wasn't pleased. The same way she wasn't pleased when we started watching The Simpsons which has become a nightly ritual at Casa Tinsley. In fact, pretty much every night of the week, by 7pm, you will find my inappropriate ass sandwiched between the Boy(s) on our sofa, usually with Ruby the Dog, as My Lovely Bride sits in the throne of impotence (a.k.a. recliner) and eyes us warily as we watch a Simpsons episode on DVR.

You'd think since this is a nightly ritual, which has led to the Boy(s) and I often spouting Simpsons lines, that I would have processed Wy's Donuts with Dad joke much faster. Nope. I suck really hard in real time which is why it took an entire day. I only got it on the drive home from work while stuck in traffic re-reading the Donuts with Dad place mat that he had gifted me that morning at my fifth and final Donuts with Dads event at the day school.

Like his joke, I nearly didn't get Donuts with Dad this year. The night before our scheduled day a wintry mix peppered the fair Messoplex and the local media outlets went into their usual That's great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an aeroplane and Lenny Bruce is not afraid mode which scared most of the ISD's in the area into canceling classes for the day. Wy was crushed.

"Dude," I said. "You don't have school today. That's a good thing. You don't get many snow days here. Enjoy."

"I want to go to Donuts with Dads," he raged!

"You can play video games, and stay in your PJ's all day?!?" I offered.

"Hmmmmppppppppffffffffff," he said, making the classic Wy pissed off face.

He was so upset in fact, that My Lovely Bride emailed the director of the day school that very morning to see if Donuts with Dad would be rescheduled. Thankfully it was, somewhat hastily, for the following Monday. The Younger Boy was ecstatic.

On that fine Monday Monday morning The Younger Boy and I were the first people to arrive at the event. We grabbed a plate of donuts, some juice and sat down at one of the tables that were set up in what is called the fireplace room. Usually Donuts with Dads is in Fellowship Hall which is a much larger space. Soon other people started funneling into the space and crowding around our table which was soon full. Wy, being excited about the event, as well as jacked up on sugar, went into rare form and started hamming it up at our table which was surrounded by his classmates.

I was attempting to make small talk with the Dads (I didn't know any of them) when Wy took a big pull from his cup of orange juice, faked a hiccup and said to a little girl from his class, "I'm drunk."

I ignored the Boy, continuing my generic weather talk with the adults at the table.

"I'm sooooooo drunk." Wy said, only loud enough that the Dads at the table stopped listening to my inane weather talk and looked at him.

I laughed, nervously, and gave Wy a look that meant, be quiet.

He did not.

"I'm drunk," he said again to his audience, "and my Dad lets me drink beer."

Fuck me, I thought. "Wy Wy that's not true..." I said as I looked around the table in a way that I hoped they'd understand that he was messing around.

"My Dad lets me drink all of his beer," Wy said. "All the time."

I have to give the Boy credit, it was here, that I felt my face turn red. Red red. Bad. He had got me. Good. And I'm hard to get.

I shook my head, wondering if I should explain what he meant. How what he was saying wasn't really true. He was trying to be funny, and truth be told, relishing the fact that I was uncomfortable. He was acting like, well, me.

"I drink beer all the time," he continued.

"Wy! That's not appropriate," I said.

The other Dads looked at me. Disapproval. Bad.

"Let's go see your room Wy Wy," I said as I picked up our donut refuse.

"I'm sooooo drunk," he said yet again as he got up, and staggered away from the table.

"Don't call CPS on me," I said to all the Dads at the table. "He's just kidding."

It was in Wy's classroom that I was gifted my Donuts with Dad place mat. He was showing me around his room when we came upon a table that had a stack of place mats. I could tell from experience they were Donuts with Dad gifts. I had gotten one each and every year. They always have a theme, at Donuts with Dad, and that theme is carried over to your gift. This year it was tools and Dad fixing stuff.

Flipping through the place mats it appeared that the teacher had written out, "My Dad..." and then asked the kids what their Dad fixed and what tools he used. She then wrote what they told her down on the mat and then gave it back to the kid to draw pictures of tools and their Dad fixing stuff. When they were through she took the art and shellacked it onto the place mat which was our gift.

We went through the place mats one by one and looked at what the other kids had done, and said, until finally we came to Wy's.

"That's mine," Wy said proudly.

"You mean mine," I said. Wy has a history of indian giving when it comes to his Donuts with Dad gifts.

"Yeah," he said smiling. "It's for you Dad. Read it."

"Thank you son," I said. "It says, My Dad can do mostly work. He can fix Mom's car. He put her mirror up. He uses a hammer and saw. He has a helper dog."

"That's not true Wy. I didn't fix Mom's car. I can't fix anything." I said.

Wy laughed.

"and Helper dog," I asked?

"Isn't that nice." Wy's teacher said as she walked into the room, starting an adult conversation with me.

After the event I placed the place mat in the front passenger seat of my car. While stopped at a light on my way to work out at lunch I again read it, puzzling over the helper dog ending.

It was only after work, on my drive home, stuck in traffic, and rereading the place mat that I finally got Wy's joke.

As soon I walked into the house I yelled out, "Wy, come here I want to ask you something."

"Yeah Dad?" he said from an ottoman in front of the tv where he played video games.

"On my Donuts with Dad place mat, did you tell Mrs. (insert Wy's teacher's name), My Dad has a helper monkey."

"Yeah," he said laughing.

"Did she act confused?" I asked. "She wrote helper dog."

"Yeah," he said laughing.

"Nice," I said because that Dear Reader is awesome.

Mojo is and has been a running joke in our casa ever since we watched that particular episode. In fact, I tell the Boy(s) I'm going to fill out a prayer request card at church and then (in theory,) during prayers and concerns at services the associate pastor and the congregation would pray for Mojo.

I haven't done it. Which I guess, depending on how you look at it, makes me appropriate. Or a big wuss. I'm still not certain. What I am certain about is this. If Wy could write better, and wasn't stuck in childcare during services he would do it. Which is appropriately enough, awesome.

Until I BLOG again...Do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do.

Hummalong

"Are you still mad at me," I asked the Elder Boy. "Or do you think it's funny now?"

I could see the Boy consider my question. Furrow was his brow, revealed in the rearview mirror as he watched Sherman, Texas speed by.

"Mad at what?" Wy asked.

"Mad at me." I answered. "I played a trick on Ethan a few weeks ago."

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" Wy screamed at me.

"Dude," I said. "Don't talk to me like that. I do understand. You want me to tell you why he was mad at me, which I will, but not if you talk to me in that way."

"Please tell me the story." Wy pleaded.

"Here's the story," I said. "A few days ago I scared Ethan. It was a prank with the coffee pot..."

I was up first that morning, followed by the Elder Boy and Ruby the Dog. E did his normal bed down on the sofa with a blanket and watch cartoons while I let the dog go outside and do her business. Her business being urination. I had just closed the back door when the automatic coffee maker started, automatically, making that strange sucking and sputtering sound that they make.

"What's that?" E asked wide eyed. Concerned if not a bit scared.

"What's what?" I asked, knowing full well what he meant and what what was.

"That noise." he said. "Coming from the kitchen."

"What noise?" I asked, playing dumb.

"That noise in the kitchen," he said again as he pushed himself up on his elbows to get a better view over our bar into the kitchen.

"I don't know," I said walking cautiously around the bar and into the kitchen presumably to investigate.

I was half way into the kitchen when the coffee maker made a particular loud suck/sputter sound. That was when I suddenly spun on my heels, gasped as if in fear, and ran as fast I could out of the kitchen, around the bar, and out our back door.

"That's funny," Wy said.

"I thought so." I answered.

"Ethan?" Wy asked his brother who was in the seat behind him in the van.

"Yeah?" He replied.

"Were you scared?" He asked.

Nothing.

"When I came back in, a few seconds later, he was freaked out..." I said.

"That's funny." Wy said laughing. "He was scared of the coffee thing."

"Yeah," I agreed, "but he quickly went from being freaked out to mad. Bad."

"It's funny." Wy said again, laughing even harder.

"Yeah," I agreed again, "but at the time Ethan didn't think so, he kept telling me it wasn't funny and that I was mean. I told him I thought later, after some time passed, he'd think it was funny."

"Yeah." Wy said.

"So E, what do you think now. Are you still mad at me, and think that I'm mean, or do you think it is funny?"

"Yeah," he said. "It's funny."

"It is." Wy agreed.

"But it was kind of mean." Ethan added.

And you know what Dear Reader. Maybe it was, and I am, mean, because a week later, I don't know which is worse. That I did the prank in the first place, or that I still find it funny. Very funny.

"Maybe," I said. "I guess I better watch out, or you'll play a prank on me to pay me back, and if not you, maybe karma."

"What's karma?" Wy asked.

"Karma is..." I explained as we drove over the Red River into Oklahoma for our quarterly Mr. Mom trip to see Old Granny and Pops. Little did I know that I'd have a concrete example of karma by our return trip.

The next morning, I awoke, tired, from a rough night of sleep in a small bed with two Boy(s) and a dog. I think my Grandma's twin guest bed is actually older than me, which explains why the mattress isn't conducive to a restful sleep. In addition my Grandma lives in a very shitty part of town, that is near a major highway, Super Wal-Mart, steel mill, and surrounded by crack house homes. There are all sorts of things that go bump in the night in the Hall Edition, including the squawk of guinea fowl that roam freely through the neighborhood.

To fully understand the irony of what happened next it would help to have read The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, which is the very novel I had finished the night before, unable to sleep, while wedged in bed, between the Boy(s) and Ruby the Dog.

You see Dear Reader, in addition to waking up tired, I also woke with a strange tickle in the back of my throat. As the day progressed, so did the tickle, which by Sunday had rendered me mute, just like Edgar freaking Sawtelle.

Thus, my Sunday morning came down hard, unable to speak clearly, and faced with a Mr. Mom return trip to Texas with two Boy(s) and Ruby the Dog.

I did my best to explain to the Boy(s) that the cold I had been fighting, won, and had settled in my throat.

"It's important that Daddy doesn't talk much today," I squawked. "I have laryngitis and I need to rest my voice so it will get better."

"What?" they asked in unison.

"It's important that Daddy doesn't talk much today," I said again, straining to be heard so they'd understand. "I have laryngitis and I need to rest my voice so it will get better."

"Oh." Ethan said.

"I'm sorry your voice is sick." Wy added.

"Thanks guys." I rasped as we pulled out of a Quick Trip parking lot and headed home.

Their sweet sympathy lasted 20 minutes. We weren't even out of Glenpool when Wy said, "Dad."

I did my best to mimic the fact that I couldn't or shouldn't talk by grabbing my throat and shaking my head in a way that clearly meant no.

"What?" Wy asked, confused.

Again, I grabbed my throat, to indicate that I couldn't or shouldn't talk and I looked at the Boy through the rearview mirror while trying to keep our van traveling safely down the two lane highway.

"What?" Wy asked again.

"My voice!" I squawked. "Remember, Daddy's not supposed to talk. I need you guys to remember and let me rest my voice."

"Oh." Wy said.

"What did you want?" I rasped.

"Is it going to be a long time," he asked.

"YES!" I shouted. "It's the same amount of time, every time! You know that. Tulsa is a long way from Dallas!!!"

"I love you." Wy said, which sounds cute, until you realize that it was nothing more than his calculated attempt at placating my anger.

"And I'm sorry your voice is sick," he added.

Twenty minutes later the Elder Boy yelled from the back of the van, "Are we still in Oklahoma."

Nothing. I ignored him.

"Dad!" he yelled again, thinking I didn't hear him because of the music. "Dad!!! Dad!!! Are we still in Oklahoma!!!"

I gave him a slow burn look in the rearview mirror and again grabbed my throat in a way that meant I couldn't or shouldn't talk.

"What?" he yelled from the back of the van.

Shaking my head, I again grabbed my throat in a way that meant I couldn't or shouldn't talk.

"What?" he yelled.

I lost it.

"Son!" I screeched, "I can't talk, you know that!"

"Sorry." Ethan offered, waiting a few seconds and then asked, "But are we still in Oklahoma?"

"Fuck me!" I squawked.

"What?" they both asked in unison.

And so it went, every twenty minutes one of the Boy(s) asked me an inane 'are we there yet' type of question which I would try to answer in a non-verbal way, only to lose my cool and end up shouting an answer they couldn't hear or understand.

"What's karma." Wy had asked two days earlier, after I told him of the coffee pot prank on the Elder Boy.

Karma is losing your voice the day after you finished reading The Story of Edgar Sawtelle on a Mr. Mom trip and ending up playing what amounts to charades from hell with your children.

It has been over a week since that trip and my voice still isn't back to normal.

That's karma.

Until I BLOG again...Don't pave your path after anyone.