Dad Is Fat

by Jim Gaffigan

  Even if you only have one or two kids, by the time they are in grade school, you will have brought them to so many birthday parties it will become somewhat of a routine. After coaxing your child into crafting something resembling a card and taping it onto that poorly wrapped, regifted present from their own birthday party, you rush the overexcited kid wearing their favorite outfit out the door, and you are on your way to the party. Then you realize that you forgot the regift, so you run back to get it, and now you are late and your kid is furious at you because they feel they have now missed “the funnest part.” Upon arrival at the venue, your child runs away immediately, and you are left awkwardly holding your embarrassing present, praying that it was not originally from the kid whose birthday party it is, making small talk with parents you barely know, and trying to get through the conversation without revealing that you totally forgot their name and you don’t know who their kid is. After some games no one wants to participate in, some ugly, glue-dribbled craft your kid makes that you plan on tossing into the first dumpster you see on the way home, and the inevitable pizza, it’s time for the cake. The cake is the fat lady singing of the little-kid birthday party. The final act. The climax of the birthday party. What everyone has been waiting for. Kids love cake, and who can blame them.

  Everyone loves cake, but at the other kid’s birthday party you also love cake for what it represents. The end. The time to go home. You are officially excused to leave the birthday party after the cake. It’s the last hymn at church. Sometimes the much-anticipated exit takes a little longer because the cake has ice cream to go with it. I’m always amazed how we serve ice cream with cake at a little kid’s birthday party. “Hey, you, what would be really good with this sugar bread? Some frozen sugar milk. Now let’s give it to the four-year-olds and see how they respond. Sugar doesn’t affect children, right? We are about to hand them back to the care of their parents, anyway.” And just as you are exiting the party with your tearful, screaming, prediabetic child over your shoulder, you are handed exactly what you need for the way home. The treat bag filled with candy. I am pretty sure this is the formula that was used to prepare the young Linda Blair for filming the bed scene in The Exorcist.

  Ice cream makes kids so happy.

  Losing My Religion

  Anyone who has ever taken their babies and kids to a church, a temple, a mosque, a wedding, a funeral, or any other place of reverence understands the true meaning of torture.

  Obviously I am against torture, yet I still take my kids to church.

  The question remains, who am I really torturing? Am I torturing myself, because it’s virtually impossible to get a young child to sit still and listen to some old guy go on and on about metaphors they don’t understand? Am I torturing my children, because church is the opposite of a video game? Am I torturing the innocent churchgoers sitting around me trying to listen and being distracted by my kids climbing on the pews or playing peek-a-boo with them?

  The answer is “All of the Above.”

  Cast photo: Baptism no. 5

  I empathize with my children. If you’ve never been to a Catholic Mass, don’t worry, it’s still going on, you still have time to catch it. I remember when I was a kid, I really thought that church was eight hours long. At times it felt like they were dragging church out on purpose. “Aaaaahhhhh-meeeeeen.” I remember thinking, “Amen, already. Let’s wrap it up, Padre. I got some sinning to do.” It was too early, too boring, smelled weird, and was filled with the oldest people on the planet. “How did you get here? What was Jesus like as a kid?” I used to have to do readings in church, and it was terrifying. I would never have my glasses. The words are printed so small even Superman would be nervous. And you’re reading from the Bible. It’s not like you can just make something up and improvise. “A reading from the letter of Saint Paul to the Corinthians. Uhhh. Dear Corinthians, … How was your weekend? Sure is hot here. Uh, tell Jesus ‘Hey.’ This is the word of the Lord.”

  When I was growing up, just getting to church caused such anxiety in our home, it seemed to defeat the purpose. Sunday mornings, my dad would bark, “Hurry up or we’re going to be late for church, God dammit!” At that age, church to me was all about strict obedience, uncomfortable clothes, and memorization. I remember my father glaring at me during Mass to see if I knew my prayers.

  Even now I find myself dreading going to Mass. It’s not just the battle with the kids. God really should have talked to the NFL before deciding to put church on Sunday. Family church on Sunday is all Jeannie’s idea. Even if there is no way my kids can figure out what’s going on in there, Jeannie insists that the routine and the exposure to it will someday benefit them. Jeannie is very Catholic. She is like a Shiite Catholic. She’s already received her early admission to heaven.

  I can never get Jeannie to leave church after Mass. “Why don’t we stay and talk to the weirdest people here?” There are definitely some serious crazies at church. Whenever I meet a real nut job at church, I am always grateful that they are going to church. Imagine how crazy they would be if they didn’t have rules to follow.

  Yes, I take my five children to church because I, too, am one of those crazies. Kids are way too noisy for church, and everyone reminds you of that while your children are acting up by turning their head around to look at you. This in turn makes everyone else turn their head around to look at you. As if looking at you is somehow going to make your kids behave instead of just making you feel horrible. No matter how much talking or singing there is at church, kids always find that brief moment of silence to make a loud announcement. “Michael did a poop in his diaper!” Also, if you take your kid to the bathroom at church one time, every time you take them to church, they will constantly tell you they have to go to the bathroom. They don’t need to go to the bathroom, they just need a break from church. And they know you have to take them. They know you live in fear of saying no because that one time you do say no will be the one time they actually do need to go to the bathroom, and then you will really be up that creek you can’t talk about in church. So you continue to take them to the bathroom, and deep down you don’t mind, because you also need a break from church.

  This is an actual photo from the Bible. No, really.

  Then there is the spectacle of carrying your misbehaving child out of church and taking them to the back until they quiet down. This is another dilemma, because taking them to the back is actually a reward for them, and it just encourages them to misbehave more often.

  I don’t want them to view church as a punishment. I do see the value in routine, tradition, and family time. I have tried to give them positive associations with going to church by offering the kids a treat after church as an incentive to behave: “If you are good in church, we will go out for pancakes.” This also backfires, because once you mention pancakes, that’s all they are going to think about and therefore talk about during the entirety of the church service. “Is it time for pancakes yet? Can I have syrup on my pancakes? Are there chocolate chip pancakes?” [To a parishioner:] “We are going for PANCAKES!”

  There is no way your small child is going to have a spiritual experience at church. The only times I have ever had a spiritual experience at church are when my kids were not at church. I think I may have heard the voice of God say, “Thanks for not bringing your kids to church.”

  No Such Thing as a Free Babysitter

  When you first have a baby, it seems like all your friends, siblings, and even sometimes strangers want to help. “Hey, if you ever need someone to babysit, let me know.” It actually appears as if everyone is begging to watch your kids. What a relief! It takes a village, right? A very short time later, you will realize that, in reality, no one wants to babysit or even help at all. They just want to say they offered. Offering is the kind gesture. Fine. Whatever. I don’t need your help anyway. Besides, I wouldn’t want some weirdo or relative watching my new baby. I am the parent, and I am not looking to outsource, thank you. I am an American, buddy!

>   Eventually the need for a babysitter creeps in as sneakily as reality TV took over and ruined prime time. Inevitably you are forced to give up the naive belief that you will be with your child every moment of their life. You need help. The question is, who should watch your angel? Who could ever be worthy of the all-important task of sitting in your apartment while your child sleeps?

  The go-to is your parents. You know they are not serial killers. They want to see their grandchild, and you don’t want to pay anyone. The perfect situation! The problem is, when you are not paying someone to do a favor for you, they don’t really need to listen to you. “No candy” means “Your heartless parents don’t give you candy, so I will give you tons of candy so you will like me better than your parents.” Also your mom and dad are crazy. They raised you, and you are a disaster! By letting them watch your kids, you are giving them free rein to replicate their mistakes. To make matters worse, by the time your parents are grandparents, they are not equipped to deal with children. I know my parents wouldn’t be good at babysitting, mostly because they’ve been dead for a decade. Actually they might be better at it now. Do less damage.

  Initially letting someone that is not you or your spouse watch your child is nerve-racking. You check in, remind them to pay attention, and eventually you cut your obligation short to race home to your newborn. The free babysitters are brief. You go through your parents, your siblings, and the rare friend who is not an alcoholic. You then must hire some stranger to watch your prized possessions and also your kids. See what I did there? Kind of funny, right? Well, I thought it was.

  Choosing a babysitter that is not a family member is one of the real struggles of parenting. Who to hire? Are they attentive? Do they have a criminal record? Eventually you become more lax in your approach. “Do you have a pulse? We’ll be home around ten.”

  Of course, I’m joking. Kind of. With more children comes a greater need for help. As you add more and more children to the mix, the price goes up as the babysitting pool diminishes and you become more efficient at selecting a babysitter. For instance, the necessity of speaking English shrinks dramatically. The following is an actual conversation I had with a babysitter.

  JEANNIE: Jim, this is Zanga.

  JIM: [Shaking hands.] Nice to meet you. Where are you from?

  ZANGA: Yes.

  JIM: What country are you from?

  ZANGA: Yes.

  JEANNIE: She’s from Sri Lanka.

  JIM: Oh, Sri Lanka. That’s where the Tamil Tigers are from, right?

  ZANGA: Yes. Tsunami. Very sad.

  JIM: Well, thanks for helping us out, Zanga.

  ZANGA: Very sad.

  JIM: Very sad.

  I wish I was exaggerating. We once had a non-English-speaking babysitter from Guatemala who I’m pretty sure didn’t even speak Spanish. Someone who doesn’t know English shouldn’t be watching my children, you say? In any small business, like parenting five children, it is necessary that you place the right people where their assets can be most useful in order to run a successful operation. Sometimes all the training a babysitter needs is having been a good mother herself. I don’t care if some early childhood education grad student has taken twelve infant CPR classes, it will never replace the experience of a sitter who has raised her own well-adjusted children. No English is required for this position.

  Let me familiarize you with some of my other categories of babysitters.

  The Warm Body

  I never said these categories would be flattering. When you have five kids, it’s completely necessary to have a warm body to sit at your house while you are gone for a short while. When children are asleep, we have no problem leaving them with the Warm Body sitting in our living room while we go out and do shows in Manhattan for a couple of hours. They are literally a baby-sitter. Well, when they are not going through our stuff.

  The College Student

  This type of sitter is ideal for pickups and drop-offs because they know the NYC subway system, and your kids think they are some cool aunt from the Disney Channel. However, if you try to leave them with your kids at night, be prepared to pay eighteen dollars an hour for someone who will be texting their boyfriend constantly, and your computer history will show that they were checking in on Facebook more often than checking in on your kids. You will likely come home to an empty fridge and a sink full of dishes, and they will ditch you for the first unpaid NYU student film they can book.

  The Manny

  Initially I was hesitant to have another man babysit my kids. What if he is better with my kids than I am? What if he is worse with my kids than I am? I’ve grown to love it. It’s really awesome to have a guy watch your kids. He can carry the stroller and a kid up five flights with no complaint and will keep them outside and active all day. You will not care at all that he does not clean or organize the diaper bag, because after all, he’s a dude! Just the fact that he is a guy that can stand to be around other people’s kids is amazing to me.

  The Mary Poppins

  It was love at first sight when you saw this babysitter interacting with other kids at the park. You immediately poached her from the family she was working for by offering her more money. This babysitter does it all. She’s warm and reads stories and plays dress-up and cooks and cleans and is part teacher, part best friend. She knows all the names of the different X-Men. Your kids love her, and she will eventually get poached by a richer family at the park. Karma. Note: If you met your wife while she was married to another man, history is bound to repeat itself.

  The Blackmailer

  This babysitter will be amazing at first, and you will keep increasing her responsibilities. You will become completely dependent on her, and she will be an integral part of your daily routine and schedule. Inevitably, she will get involved in gossiping with the other sitters at the park and find out that someone makes more money for fewer kids or gets a MetroCard or federal holidays off (when there is no school and you need someone the most). Then when you have your busiest week with your most important deadline, she will threaten to quit unless she immediately receives all the aforementioned perks, and you are forced to give in to all of her demands. Of course, she will always hold one of the demands back and save it for the next time you are in a position of weakness.

  The Attention Seeker

  This babysitter will always be going through some personal crisis and make you feel as if you somehow had something to do with it. They will interrupt you during a business phone call to inform you that they found some mess that your kids made instead of just cleaning it up. They will create drama with any other babysitter that you hire to fill in when you need someone extra. The Attention Seeker will have some really positive attributes to justify you keeping her around, but eventually it becomes too much to bear, because your kids are also attention seekers and there is not enough attention to go around as it is.

  The irony of the babysitting situation is that you need someone to watch your kids while you go out to earn the money to pay someone to take care of your kids. Your ultimate goal by earning the money is to be able to spend quality time with your kids, which is what you are paying your babysitter to do. The babysitting thing is my own personal Sisyphus story of endlessly rolling the rock up the hill and watching it roll back down. It’s actually your fault, really, because you made me write this book so you could read it. How selfish of you!

  How to Put Five Kids to Bed in a Two-Bedroom Apartment

  Living in a tiny two-bedroom apartment with five children makes bedtime a logistical nightmare. We have two single beds in the kids’ room and one king in our master bedroom. No, these aren’t big rooms. Think breadbox, but smaller. There is a crib in each of these rooms and also a crib on prominent display in the middle of our living room / office / dining room / kitchen because we love to show off our crib. (Pun intended.) We have three cribs. We have so many cribs, we should be on that show Cribs. Or at least in pun jail.

  Given the number of children we have, bedtime must
occur in waves. Babies (newborn and one-year-old) are placed in cribs, one in the kids’ room and one in the master.

  Then the hard part commences: the coordinating of teethbrushing and using the bathroom with the big three. Once teeth are cleaned and everyone uses the potty, there is cuddling and stories with the big three, and then, out of necessity, the most raucous one is temporarily placed in our bed in the master, which has now become the “holding cell.” If you are keeping track at home, we have three kids in one room and two in the other.

  Now you may be wondering, why don’t we have bunk beds? We learned with our first two kids that bunk beds are great except when a two-year-old crawls up to the top bunk, jumps, and falls on her face. We finally got rid of the bunk beds when we started to be on a first-name basis with the receptionist at the ER. Back to the present scenario. After the kids are in their secure location, I will run out and do a show or two. Jeannie will do whatever she does to hold our lives together. This part of the evening is known as a quasi “intermission.” After I come back, Act II begins. Jeannie and I will do work, write, and try to maintain some semblance of a grown-up relationship. This all takes place in the living room, where there are no kids.

  As you can see, we have made optimal use of the apartment. We have all the children snug in each of our beds. You may wonder where Jeannie and I sleep, since all the beds are occupied. This could be a major conflict. Begin Act III. If Jeannie and I plan to read or watch television in bed (which is every night, by the way), then a “transfer” must occur. The child that is in our bed must be moved into one of the singles with one of the other kids. Then the baby that is in our room must be moved from the crib in our room to the crib that is in the now quiet and dark living room / dining room / office / kitchen.