Chris Illuminati identifies a few essential aspects of being a dad where he’s exceeding his own expectations
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I thought this would be the hardest habit to break. I’m the son of a bartender, a man who uses curse words to increase the impact and ferocity of another curse word. Not quite an adjective, nor descriptor, it’s just an extra curse drizzled on top.
Example—“Look at this shitty fuck swerving into our lane” because fuck just isn’t a powerful enough curse.
I’m exceptional at compressing the salty language, except in situations of extreme duress, like stepping on a particularly pointy toy or making a wrong turn after already getting lost. I did recently take the Lord’s name in vain. I howled out “JESUS CHRIST!” at the sight of the kid holding a chunk of his own shit like a cigar. Let’s not call it cursing, it’s more an impromptu prayer for the strength to not to laugh or vomit in the middle of a kid crisis. The prayer was too late. I laugh vomited. It’s like a vomit burp, but while laughing. It’s slightly more unpleasant.
I’ve developed the ability to watch twenty straight minutes of Nick Jr. without focusing or comprehending a single frame. I can shut off the thinking part of my brain and just stare blankly as the pixelated people delight the kids. I’ve also learned to find new background scene items in the movies the kids are watching—one a day, every day.
A reader recently emailed and asked, after watching Cars for the billionth time, why there are sidewalks in world inhabited with vehicles. I didn’t have an answer, but I did feel better knowing I’m not alone.
Weapons might not be the best word. “Dangerous objects” is a better description. I’m forgetful and leave things lying around that the kids can get their hands on like scissors, kitchen knives, eighteenth-century daggers, torches from uncompleted Olympic runs, and assorted instruments with which a kid could kill. I’ve found a home for them all, far from the reach of long arm toddlers with stools in tow. On a related note, there are still a few days left to buy one of my Olympic torches on eBay. Must pay for shipping.
Like every other kid on Earth, mine asks a ton of questions. My answers are acceptable and sometimes even well-thought and lengthy, then he follows each explanation with a “Why?” and I’m down to like that third line of definition in the dictionary that no one ever bothers to read unless they still don’t understand what the hell a word means.
After the third straight “Why?”, I pass it off to the Permanent Roommate. She can either start from the beginning or wave a shiny object in his face to distract his line of questioning.
She does the same thing to me when I ask for sex.
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Post originally appeared on Messagewithabottle.tumblr.com; Images courtesy of Message with a Bottle.
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Credit: Photo—Jeff Robbins/Flickr