by Adam Carolla
Another night, Lynette and the gals were going out to see the Beastie Boys, and before they left I was given the condescending rundown: “Put on the quiet music,” “Put on the blankie,” “As they nod off, move them from the daybed into the crib.” While Lynette was getting ready, Natalia started making noises, like preverbal conversation cooing kind of sounds. Sonny, meanwhile, was crying like a stuck pig. I thought the difference was interesting and funny and wanted to play it on the morning radio show the next day. I grabbed a camera and was videotaping them to capture the audio when Lynette walked in. In full “You idiot” tone, she said, “Why are you videotaping them? Just pick them up.” I was already off to a bad start.
While Lynette was listening to the B-boys do “No Sleep Till Brooklyn,” the kids had actually gone to sleep on their daybed. I decided that they were both okay and if I attempted to move them to the crib, I’d end up waking them. So I just left them there. Lynette had warned me Natalia would roll around and flop while Sonny would just sit there like a turtle on its back. (A trend that continues today, as far as physical activity.) I figured I’d be fine hopping out of the room for a few to check some car auctions. I was maybe a minute into my second favorite Internet-related activity when I heard some crying. I came back in and Natalia was facedown on the floor. She had rolled herself out of the daybed, two feet down to the carpet. Sonny was still in the bed unfazed. I ran in and grabbed her, she was squealing but seemed more confused than hurt. I checked for damage and was carrying her around, and saying it was okay and not to tell anybody. I didn’t hear her hit the ground, just the crying afterward, so I had to assume that it wasn’t too bad. Needless to say, when Lynette saw the bump that later appeared on Natalia’s head, I was not left alone with them as infants very much.
On a fecal side note: Natalia was a gassy baby. I remember there was one night when she was constantly breaking wind, and then the dog Molly got in on it, too. So I decided, fuck it, I was going to let it fly myself. I was going to fart-icipate. We’d have a nice family fart fest. It was kind of fun, until Lynette came in and blamed me, and then didn’t appreciate when I tried to pin it on Natalia and the dog.
When it came time to potty train them, Natalia beat Sonny to the punch. I came home one night, and Lynette said, “Do you notice anything different about Natalia?” I immediately guessed something was up with her hair. That’s usually the answer to “Notice anything different?” with the chicks. Lynette told me, “No, she’s wearing her underpants.” This might seem like I was tuned out, but it’s ultimately a good thing that I didn’t notice, because the last thing you want is the answer, “Yep, I know that crotch up and down and I noticed instantly something was off.” That’s what we’d call a tell in the To Catch a Predator game.
It wasn’t a perfect pull-up to potty progression. We developed a system where I had to wake her up at midnight and take her to pee so that she didn’t have an accident in bed. It was a little hit and miss. Sometimes she’d beat me to the pee-pee punch. If she was wet, I’d make Lynette handle it. I wasn’t fucking with that nonsense. But most times she’d just be in this fog, take care of business and later have no memory of it. I’d rub her head and gently coach her to take a leak, so Daddy could get to bed himself. But I didn’t know about the toilet paper part, until I was informed by Lynette that I didn’t know that there was front wiping for the ladies after a tinkle. I’m a guy, we only have one use for toilet paper. And I can’t wipe for her. That would be super weird. So I’d hand her the paper and let her do it. It was dark, because I didn’t want to wake her up and her midnight motor skills weren’t so good, so who knows how that all went, but an attempt was made and soon we were all able to go back to bed.
But those minutes waiting for her to pee felt like forever. I’d just sit there and wait in the silence and then, suddenly, it would sound like someone was using a pressure washer to clean the coping of a pool.
Let me do a little side tangent on bathroom sounds. I was at another one of my vintage races and had the bad luck of having to make a number two in the port-a-potty. I didn’t have any other option. That is a fate worse than death. We all know the smell is terrible but what I realized then was that even more disconcerting is the sound. Or lack thereof. The worst noise a man, woman or child can hear is when your ass is on that wafer-thin port-a-potty seat to do a little offloading and the dook doesn’t make the splash sound. It just sounds like you shit on a hot rock. That splash noise is comforting, as opposed to that awful “flop” sound. I’d rather hear a dentist’s drill. You get this in the airplane bathroom, too. You don’t realize how much you miss that sound when you don’t have it. This led me to envision another in my series of new apps. I call it Kerplunk. You put your earbuds in and, at the appropriate time, hit the button and it plays a nice splash sound, like dropping a charcoal briquette into a bucket of water.
Back to Natalia and her wily urethra. One time, she pulled down the pajamas and underpants like normal, and somehow the stream was off and she ended up soaking her jammies. So I was standing there holding her pee-jays, trying not to drip the wee on myself while fishing around in the dark for a clean pair. I ended up grabbing Sonny’s Underoos and holding them up to the nightlight to try to figure out what the fuck is going on without waking him up. I was on the verge of just telling her to go to bed without underwear or pajamas. But I didn’t want to endure Lynette’s wrath if she found Natalia naked the next morning, or the awkwardness of that partially recovered memory. I can just hear Natalia telling you, her therapist, “All I remember is my dad getting me up in the middle of the night, and then waking up naked the next morning.”
A couple of times the nightly pee routine did cause some tension with the wife. I came home at midnight once, after two live podcasts in the midst of an incredibly busy week. Lynette was luxuriating in a bathrobe on top of the 1,000 thread-count sheets watching Homeland. I literally didn’t even know what day it was, I had been so busy. I walked in and told her how burnt-out I was. She agreed that I needed to take a break from the road gigs, and then reminded me it was midnight and that I needed to take Natalia for a piss. I said I was too fucking tired. She said, “You’re right.” Then added, “Wait an hour, then do it.” It wasn’t malicious. It was worse. It just didn’t occur to her to do it herself. In her defense, when she saw me deflate at her suggestion and nearly pass out from exhaustion, she got the gist and took care of it herself.
As I said, Natalia beat Sonny in the potty-training race. He was still in pull-ups when she had moved on to panties. I tried to create a little quarterback controversy, a little competition and use her as leverage. I started shaming him by calling the pull-ups diapers, which he’d always angrily correct me on.
And a quick tangent on gender roles. One night, we ran out of the Spiderman pull-ups. All we had were Natalia’s now no-longer-needed Dora the Explorer ones left. When we attempted to put Sonny in them, it was like trying to put a cat in a crate. He was crying and infuriated that we would even consider putting him in pink girl pull-ups.
Also, when it comes to the Underoos and pull-ups in general, I don’t get it. Aren’t you supposed to idolize Doc McStuffins and SpongeBob and whoever the kids’ character du jour is? Why would you want to pee on them? Aren’t we just training kids to be into weird stuff sexually? We’re essentially telling them that if you love someone, you should take a leak on them. This is a golden-shower fetish waiting to happen.
The potty-training issue with Sonny was more about the backside than the front. He was a little obsessed with having a clean butthole. So if you, as his therapist, are seeing some OCD behavior that might be why. He would demand that we wipe his butt for a long time, until I made him start to do it himself. We’d go back and forth. He’d be calling from the bathroom, “Daddy, wipe my butt.” Then you’d hear me shouting from down the hallway, “Wipe yourself.” He wouldn’t give up the ass ghost on that one for a long time. He was worried he’d miss a spot. We eventually reached a compromise, where he’
d bring me the toilet paper and I’d dust it for dook and make sure he had a clean wipe. I didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t think shaming my son about his anus was a great plan. That’s the kind of thing that will land him in some horrifying porn. So rest assured, therapist, I did my best.
I can think of one pee-related incident with Sonny. There was a weekend when Lynette was going to Chicago to see Bruce Springsteen and taking the kids with her, which meant I got to drive her Audi. After they had been dropped off at the airport, I got a call from Olga but, through a broken cell connection and broken English, all I understood was that there was a problem in the car. I wasn’t sure what it was until I looked in the compartment on the passenger-side door. I found a Ziploc bag full of pee. Apparently, on the ride to the airport Sonny just couldn’t hold it. I used to be a bed wetter, so I get it. I don’t mind the piss in the bag, I just mind the part where it stayed in the car. I called Sonny that night for our usual good-night conversation and tossed in, “And thanks for the gift you left in the car.” Not getting the irony Sonny said, “That’s not a gift.”
So, therapist, I pray that this letter was unnecessary and that their asses have not graced your couch because the sweetness I’ve seen from Natalia as she’s gotten older has continued and Sonny has remained as mellow as ever. But if not, then I hope it cleared up a few of the misconceptions or straight-up lies that you might be hearing in therapy about dear old dad. My wish is that they regard me as firm but fair. But if the twins are in therapy, the one thing I hope they don’t say is, “He did his best.” That’s a tell that you had a shitty dad. It’s the lowest grade you can give a parent without completely disowning them as drunken abusive assholes. If either Sonny or Natalia are telling you that I did my best, then all the defending I’ve done of myself is useless. But, rest assured, if they are at least halfway functioning people it’s because every good thing they’ve said about their mother is completely true.
CHAPTER 5
Punished for Participation
IT ISN’T THAT I don’t try to be a good dad. I get involved with their lives to the best of my ability. Sure, I’m not the kind of dad who lets his daughter put makeup on him or gets down on the floor to bust out the gluten-free Play-Doh with his kids. But I do make an effort. It is just that every time I’ve tried to engage with the kids, it has blown up in my face.
My first mistake was reading to them. I’m not a great reader (which I’ve, ironically, written about in my other three books), so it’s an embarrassing chore. When someone wearing a Curious George onesie is correcting you on your grammar, it’s time to take a long hard look in the mirror. I’ve always been a terrible reader. I was never formally diagnosed with any reading disability. I was tested for dyslexia and passed. It’s one of the few tests I wish I had failed. At least that would be an answer as to why I couldn’t read the back of a cereal box when I was a kid.
People always said to me, “You must have been dyslexic.” I wasn’t. Why is it that when a white kid can’t read people say he’s dyslexic but when a black kid can’t read people say he “fell through the cracks.” This is a racist thought. I was as white as they come, and I fell through the cracks known as my parents and the Los Angeles school system. That said, Dyslexia would make a great black name. Sounds like a good wide out for the Steelers.
The problem is that I went to a crappy free-range hippie school where we were taught more about hating Nixon than loving the alphabet. Then I spent years doing construction with addicts and idiots and the latest tome from John Irving didn’t really come up around the hose that was our water cooler. In fact, on a construction site being educated could be a hindrance. You’d be mocked mercilessly. “Hey, Alex Trebek, why don’t you use that giant brain of yours to figure out the nailing schedule on that shear wall.”
When I was in the sixth grade, I had to go up to the chalkboard and write the Phys Ed schedule. I had to put the girls in one column and the boys in the other. I spelled girls with a U. Gurls. That was the end for me. So reading has always had not just a physical, but an emotional barrier, too. It makes me feel like crap. Thus, reading to my kids was a tough putt. But I powered through. And I’ll tell you what I learned. All those years of not reading were worth it. Kids’ books are some of the worst pieces of shit ever committed to the page.
One of the books I was tasked with reading to Sonny when he was around five was Danny and the Dinosaur.
This piece of shit was written in 1952. You can tell right away, because the kid on the cover is blond and white, as are all of his friends in the book. Today, it would have to be a multicultural rainbow and there’d have to be a kid with leg braces or a wheelchair. But the kids in this book looked like Hitler Youth.
I tried to have a moment and not judge, and just enjoy doing something Sonny liked. Like all little boys, he loved dinosaurs. But I barely made it past the title. It’s shitty alliteration. That’s the first strike. And it doesn’t rhyme. Strike two. Strikes three through twenty-eight were the writing. After Danny rides the dinosaur out of the museum, a dog barks at him. Here’s a true quote from the book: “ ‘Bow wow!’ said a dog. ‘Go away, dog. We are not a car,’ said Danny.”
I feel like anyone could write that book. You could figure out exactly how long it took to compose by dividing the number of words it contains by the word per minute count of the author’s typing test. There is nothing complex or interesting about this story. At all. It would barely count as a first draft.
But buckle up for the big ending. There’s a message to be sent. The other children leave and the dinosaur says he has to go back to the museum, but he had a good time with Danny. Danny walks away and goes home. Wow. I’m telling you, that is some Breaking Bad–level plot twisting right there. That’s not an ending. That’s just the place where the author stopping writing. That book ended because the writer needed to take a leak.
The good news is that I don’t think Sonny liked it either. But then again, I did read with so much disdain in my voice, I didn’t really sell it.
People always tell me not to care about how bad children’s books and cartoons are, but kids absorb this stuff. Parents are told that exposing their children to the arts and to classical music helps with brain development. Kids suck up stuff like sponges, right? Would you rather your kids’ spongy brains soak up Mozart, or Flo-Rida? Why not go for some higher-quality books while you’re at it?
One book I had to read the kids, that did rhyme, was Who Took the Cookie from the Cookie Jar? This was one Natalia wanted. They adapted it from a kids’ playground song. The first page was the phrase “Who took the cookies from the cookie jar?” repeated three times. Then a skunk spends the next ten pages accusing lizards, mice, raccoons, frogs and other creatures of taking the cookies. Spoiler alert, it turns out it was the ants. But after they get caught, the ants share the cookies. This book goes nowhere and sends a terrible message about theft. So, kids, if you get caught shoplifting a couple iPhone cases, just offer to share them with the mall security guard and everyone will be happy.
Here’s the thing that really bothered me about this particular book. I can almost give a pass on shitty writing if the person also illustrated their own story. Okay, maybe you’re a hack writer, but at least you can draw. But this book was written by not one, but two people—Bonnie Lass and Philemon Sturges—and illustrated by a third, Ashley Wolff. Is this actually a three-person job? I’m the only one required to make a literal shit; why does it take three people to produce a literary shit?
So my answer to the question “Who took the cookies from the cookie jar?” is WHO GIVES A FUCK?! What was really taken was fifteen minutes from my life that I would like back.
The worst of them all is Where the Wild Things Are. This beloved tome has probably sold two zillion copies worldwide over the last forty-five years. Like all parents, I had to read this garbage to my kids. As with all the other kids’ books I’ve been bashing, this is a story about nothing, it goes nowhere and it doesn’t even rhyme. Cred
it where credit is due, the illustration is great, but the words you could write in less than an afternoon.
Those of you who doubt me and wax nostalgic about this book, please read it again and tell me if it’s not a pile of shit, or originally written in Hungarian and poorly translated. Because it seems very strange.
And like the ants in the cookie jar book there is a negative message in Where the Wild Things Are, too. The kid is being a little shit, even chasing the dog around with a fork, and is thus sent to bed without supper (which, by the way, parents don’t get to do anymore. They’d have child protective services called on them). So he’s in his room, apparently drops some peyote, floats out the window and goes to a magical place inhabited by some enormous creatures that don’t really seem to bother him. They make him their king, but he splits, even though they wanted him to stay and when he gets back from his acid trip his food was waiting for him. Message received. Be a total asshole to your parents, and then abandon your friends. No problem. There won’t be any consequences.
Also, like the cookie jar book, it does that cop-out stretch writing thing. It’s the literary equivalent of like stepping on cocaine with baby powder. In Where the Wild Things Are there are three pages for the following phrases “And he got in his boat and he sailed . . . And sailed . . . And he sailed some more.” Is your typewriter broken in a way that only allows you to write that sentence? I’m writing this book. I have a word count from my publishers. I can’t just write the same sentence over . . . and over . . . and over . . . and over again.
When I looked up Maurice Sendak’s credits I was thoroughly unsurprised to find that he never did a single book for adults. It’s not like “Oh, and he also wrote All the President’s Men.”
Here’s the real problem. Whether it’s Mapplethorpe and Piss Christ or a shitty Adam Sandler movie I’m not bringing my family to see it. But I’m forced to read these books. I have to read to my kids, and thus put this toxic waste into my brain, filling valuable real estate that could be taken up with vintage racing cars and porn.