The How-Not-To Guide to Parenting and Marriage

by Jon Ziegler

  Once again, the room exploded in violence the minute the syringe was produced. The whole scene was much like a dog-cat-bird fight in a cartoon. All that could be seen other than a whirling cloud of dust, was the occasional dentist arm holding a syringe, flailing child appendage, or my apathetic, dopey expressioned face. Only this time, we were able to somehow get the laughing gas hose onto her nose and the Novocain administered, even in spite of my receiving a bite mark to the left ear, and the dentist getting his own poke from the syringe to his left pinky finger. The child finally lay silent. I again informed him that I was frowning at him.

  Once we had finally sedated and numbed the wild animal, it only took the dentist about ten minutes to complete the filling procedure, which he did with his left pinky finger extended like someone drinking a cup of tea, due to the digit’s numbness. But alas, the deed was done.

  When I arrived home with Natalie, who still didn’t seem to realize everything that was going on, my wife asked how it went. “It was a breeze” I said, “You just have to know how to handle her”.

  “Well good! You can take her from now on” she answered.

  I was disgusted that I hadn’t seen that coming when I had decided to lie to her about how it went. I had just shot myself in my own proverbial foot. Being annoyed, I didn’t even bother to tell her that I was frowning at her as I walked away.

  25. I'M NOT A SPORTS DAD

  I'm not a sports dad. I guess I wasn't a sports kid either. I just have never had much interest in watching or playing sports. I think that maybe I was born without the normal male sports chromosome. And in America, that makes me less of a man.

  It doesn't seem to matter that I've been a tree trimmer, tower climber, and logger. I'm not a true man because I'd rather be fishing or hunting or hiking, than sitting on the couch all weekend with a bag of chips, watching sports.

  When I'm with my friends, our conversation always runs through the normal cycle of topics; hot rods, lawn care, new ideas on surviving the zombie apocalypse, and then without fail, ends with a 2 or 3 hour discussion on sports . . . . . . To which, I can contribute nothing. . . . . .NOTHING! This is the point where I say something like, "Wow, that queso really tore me up! I gotta go find the crapper" and then excuse myself. I then usually end up spending the rest of the evening sitting and listening to the women talk about Pintrest.

  In the past I've made attempts at faking it. I've tried memorizing the names and stats of whatever sport is current, but my memory is not that good, and it was an embarrassing disaster. I even tried writing a cheat sheet on my arm like a student cheating on a test, but somehow there was a flaw in my research, and I ended up scrawling the Big Ten stats from 2002 instead of 2012....... The end result was quite humiliating.

  I don't even know how to cheer properly when my buddies have the game on. When there is a play that would have them all yelling, "OHHHH IT'S A BLITZ! HE'S GONNA GET SACKED!" All I can come up with is, "That little guy with the ball better run, because those big dudes seem intent on assaulting him".

  My kids suffer from my having been born without a sports chromosome as well. A normal dad is able to teach his kids some of the sports basics at the very least. All I can do when they want to play a sport, is to find them videos on YouTube that might help them.

  Natalie decided that she wanted to try playing basketball a while back, so we signed her up. As I dropped her off for her first ever basketball practice, I felt compelled to give her some sort of advice. In my mind, I had somehow confused basketball with soccer, and I told her, "Remember that no matter what you do, never touch the ball with your hands . . . . Just your feet. I probably should have suspected something wasn't right from her strenuous questioning of my advice, but I insisted I was the dad, and I knew more than her. As she got out of the car and headed into the school, I was mistakenly proud that what little sports knowledge that I did possess, had saved her from the embarrassment of handling the basketball with her hands.

  I was informed later that evening from my sobbing daughter, how flawed my advice had been...... I no longer offer sports advice to my kids . . . . For their sake. Luckily, my daughters have a few uncles who can stand in as surrogate sports dads. Unfortunately, this does nothing to help me when my friends decide to watch the game or talk about sports. In those times, I am doomed to forever be “that guy who doesn’t like sports”.

  26. HAPPY LIGHT

  My wife claims that I suffer from that seasonal depression disorder that causes people to get depressed in the winter. My sister in-law recommended a light that supposedly mimics the sun's light, so my wife acquired one. It is now referred to, by my wife and kids, as "Dad's happy light".

  I'm not sure if it helps or not, but I have noticed that if my wife and I have any sort of disagreement, she will at some point after the argument, switch the light on and point it at me . . . . And I think she believes she's being subtle about it. I also think she is over-estimating this light's ability to fix all my supposed faults. I have even noticed that as I sit in the glow of the happy light, she will periodically bring up different points of our argument, as if to see if the light had softened up my brain and made me see things her way yet, much like a baker checking a cake in the oven.

  We were the playing a trivia game, the other night, that required players to have a vast knowledge of current children's TV shows. My ignorance on the subject was causing my wife and I to get beaten quite soundly by our two girls. So in the middle of one of our turns, my wife got up, and moved the happy light over in front of me and switched it on. I think she actually believed that the happy light would somehow unlock a cache of forgotten Kid TV facts in my brain, or that it might transfer the question answers to me through its bright glow.

  My daughters are quick to pick up on the concept of the light, as well. If I were to come home from work, and find them sacrificing and burning small animals in our living room, all I would have to say is, "umm, I'm not sure this is the best idea, girls...." and they both would reply in unison, "JEEZE-O-PEETS, SOMEONE NEEDS TO GO SIT INFRONT OF HIS HAPPY LIGHT!!!"

  I'm starting to think this light isn't even supposed to help with the disorder . . . . . If I even have a disorder. I think that maybe it’s just a prop that is used by my family to make me think that depression is the only possible reason that I would ever question their logic and reason!

  27. FRIDAY NIGHT

  Well, it’s official . . . . . I'm old.

  Why?

  I'll tell you why.

  It's Friday evening, my wife and kids are out of town for the night. Not that long ago, this would have meant that I would have conducted myself much like a rowdy cowboy returning to town after being on the trail for a month (minus the prostitutes).

  But what am I thinking about as I drive home from work?

  I'm thinking about cooking the pound of bacon that I saw in the refrigerator, and eating it all myself, and then having a Ken Burns documentary marathon without the constant chorus of my girls saying, "can we please watch something else dad? This is soooooo boring!"

  Yep! I'm living large.

  28. SIGNS OF THE END OF THE WORLD (according to my daughter's)

  1. We are out of ketchup.

  2. We are out of mayonnaise.

  3. The dinner that was made for you by people who have been working all day, is not to your liking.

  4. Cable and/or internet is out.

  5. You don't like any of your 14 pairs of shoes, and neither mom nor dad will run you to the store at 10pm for the ones you REALLY always wanted.

  6. A caged rodent or fish (that is otherwise neglected) goes home to be with the Lord.

  7. You are unfairly ordered to clean up the mess that you have made.

  8. Dad shows up at your school wearing his new skinny jeans.

  29. TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF

  "You're not a teenager anymore, you know. You need to make some changes in your lifestyle", she said.

  I have always been troubled by conversations that start
in that manner. They tend to be filled with logic and common sense, which are my two arch nemeses’ when it comes to lifestyle choices.

  Thinking I was going to be lectured about laughing hysterically at the same Bugs Bunny cartoons that I had seen at least a thousand times in my life, I took the bait and asked, "what changes?".

  "You need to start paying a little more attention to your health" was the reply.

  At this point, I should have followed my first instinct, and departed the living room in favor of the solace of my shed, but foolishly, I chose to engage.

  "I'm in good shape! I climb trees for a living." I proclaimed.

  "Climbing trees is not aerobic exercise, and while it may strengthen your hang-on-for-dear-life muscles, it's doing little for the health of your heart. Not to mention, if you were in better shape, you might not come home after climbing trees, and lay on the couch yelping like a puppy who had been hit with a rolled up newspaper. You need to exercise."

  "I get plenty of exercise", I replied.

  "You rarely get off the couch when you're home, and if you do venture outside, you make the kids pull you around in their wagon!"

  "That's not true! I get up several times an evening, and walk outside to smoke", I said, realizing instantly that I had just opened a whole new can . . . no, barrel of worms.

  To this, she gave me a look that said, "I don't even have to argue that point, do I?”

  She then moved on to the issue of my diet. An issue that I did not think was an issue, but was apparently an issue to her.

  "What's wrong with my diet?"

  "Your breakfast consists of a whole pot of coffee, and the occasional Vicodin for your back. Your lunch is whichever fast-food kid’s meal that you perceive to have the best toy in it, which is another issue that I don't even want to get into right now. You couldn't even tell me the last time you ate something green, and bacon grease is not a suitable bread spread."

  Having lost track of all her points, I simply replied, "Well, French fries are made from potatoes!"

  I then began to suspect that I was not winning the argument, so I left immediately for my shed. After sitting down to catch my breath from the walk, I contemplated long and hard on the issue, and decided to make an effort at improving my lifestyle. And I would start the next day.

  My first course of action was to prepare for attacking the smoking issue, and taking care of the breakfast issue at the same time. So, the very next morning, I made myself a heaping bowl of the 'quit smoking' drug that my doctor had given me, and poured milk on it, making it a bit more palatable. Just as I was about to shovel in the first bite, my wife entered the dining room and began shrieking something about proper dosage or something.

  Humoring her, I took only one spoonful of the anti-depressants, and put the rest of the bowl in the fridge for later. I then declared triumphantly, "I have decided to make some changes."

  "Oh?" she said in a tone that suggested concern.

  "Yes, I'm going to quit smoking . . . again, and I'm going to start exercising. And I'm also going to eat a vegetable every day."

  With that being said, I got up, walked out the door, and jogged the entire fifty feet to my truck in the driveway.

  Upon returning home that day from work, I was delighted to find out that my wonderful wife was putting forth great effort to help me with my lifestyle changes. As I sat down for dinner, she heaped two huge scoops of peas onto my plate.

  "WHOA! WHAT THE HECK? You're getting a little carried away aren't you?" I yelled.

  "I thought you said you were going to eat a vegetable every day."

  "YES, A VEGETABLE! As in, A green bean, or A pea. Not a whole flock of them! With that, I picked up A pea, and swallowed it down with my Coke, like a pill.

  She had also begun preparations for my smoking cessation by posting "Dad escape routes" for the kids, and removing the ax from my shed in an attempt to spare the lawn mower from further harm in the event of a nicotine fit.

  With all of this, I am beginning to feel minutely confident that the lifestyle changes shall be successful. But it’s far too early to know. I figure if I, and everyone else in the family, can survive this shock to my system for at least a week, then maybe I’ll consider making some of them permanent.

  30. CHILDREN'S ART

  My wife and I have always encouraged our girls to be creative. From the time that could hold a crayon or marker, we have provided them with every variety of art supply available. I absolutely love all of their creations. Even the ones that make your eyebrows raise.

  One such eyebrow raising creation was waiting for me when I arrived home from work one day. It was a twenty foot mural painted on the black canvas of our asphalt driveway. The subject matter was a smiling dog.

  A smiling dog that was in a familiar crouching pose . . . . .

  The crouching pose of a dog that was pooping.

  Pooping multicolored poops.

  And the worst part was the fact that this art had been rendered in full color, using the collection of spray paint I keep in the garage.

  As I stood scratching my head and admiring the smiling, pooping, anatomically correct, male canine, my wife came bursting out the front door. I could tell by her body language that she had already seen giant masterpiece, and was not happy about it.

  "Do you see what your daughters did?” she yelled, as if I had put them up to it.

  "Well, yes I see ..... Wait a minute, MY daughters? You're the one who is always telling them to use their imaginations! Besides, it’s not that big of deal. It'll just get tarred over when we have the driveway resealed."

  My wife’s eyes got even bigger as she yelled, "NOT THAT BIG OF DEAL? My 'Moms Who Care' group is meeting here in an hour. Do you know how embarrassing it will be for me if they are greeted by a twenty foot tall crapping dog, who is quite obviously a male?"

  "Oh", I said.

  Just then, my neighbor Robert wandered up, and in true Robert fashion said, "Don't you think this sort of driveway decoration might lower property values in the neighborhood?"

  Now I was mad.

  "SHUT UP ROBERT! I know for a fact, that YOU were using the bushes behind our houses as your personal toilet while your septic was getting worked on! And that was after I told you that you could use OUR bathroom!"

  Robert let out a snort, but knew better than to try denying my accusation.

  My attention was immediately drawn back to the artistic problem at hand by my wife, who demanded to know what I was going to do about it.

  "Robert and I will figure something out" I said unsurely.

  With only an hour until the group of moms arrived, sealcoating the driveway was out of the question. I considered painting over the drawing with a nearly full can of purple paint that was left over from my wife's "accent wall" phase. However, Robert insisted that purple was the color that was used by aliens to mark landing zones during human abduction events. I was skeptical, to say the least, but not wanting to chance that kind of attention, I moved on to other ideas.

  I reasoned that there wasn't enough time to cover the art with tar, nor run to the hardware to get a non-alien-attracting color. This left only one option as I saw it . . . . Alter the painting to make it less offensive.

  Robert had found just enough black paint to turn the male dog into a non-male dog (as long as you didn't catch the cover up in the right light). This solved one problem.

  Being the intellectual type, I was able to use the remainder of the spray paint to turn the poops into puppies. This solution was actually quite easy, at least with the three "midair" droppings. The pile that my daughter's had drawn, was a bit more challenging than the oblong "mid-air" poops, in that it was shorter, fatter, and had a pointed top like a soft serve ice cream cone. But with a little more creativity, I was able to turn the poop pile into a kitty cat, using the pointy top as one of its ears. Robert and I put the finishing touches on our re-mastered masterpiece, and then stood admiring our work.

  I had done it. I had chan
ged a crouching, male, pooping dog into a crouching, female dog having puppies that were landing on a cat. And other than the fact that it appeared like the original St. Bernard-looking dog was having Dachshund puppies, I thought it looked pretty good.

  My wife even had to admit (after initially calling my idea the stupidest thing she had ever heard of) that at the very least, it reduced the amount of embarrassment, even if it didn't completely eliminate it. And being careful not to discourage their artistic endeavors, the girls were strongly advised to be more particular about the subject matter of their art projects in the future.

  31. ORGANIZATION MAYHEM

  My wife is an organizer. It's in her DNA. At least once a month, everything in our house must be violently uprooted from its happy home, and relocated to a new home, and new neighbors.

  Being that we live in a fairly small house, with limited closet and storage space, many of the objects in our house must coexist with other objects that are of a different species, such as the silverware/battery drawer or the crackers/bread/canned soup/mitten and hat cupboard.

  This all works out fine until one day when you open what you thought was the silverware/battery drawer only to find that it has now become the pen/pencil/can opener/socks without a match drawer. And the silverware and batteries are not only moved to a new and mysterious location, but they have also been separated and given new roommates. So now, the batteries live in the battery/Christmas decoration plastic tub in the basement, and the silverware shares a home with the numerous phone chargers that no longer fit any of the phones that we own, in the silverware/obsolete phone charger/air freshener drawer, located in the buffet in our dining room. I have yet to unravel the mystery of where the crackers, bread, canned soup, mittens and hats have been sent.