Don't Touch My Kid!

Today I sit writing, pausing to blow snot out of my nose. Yep, I have a cold. Which means my kids will get it. The baby already does. By the time we get over it my two year old will just be getting started. This leads to a month long cycle of passing the snot ball around. I am thinking about licking my kids face so we can get this over sooner. Now, when I used to have a job getting sick usually meant getting a day off watching bad soap operas. But not now! Now, getting sick means a day of lying on the floor having your kid jump up and down on you. You’ve got about 2 hours till he gets bored watching TV. 2 hours till he begins begging, pleading, and crying till you play with him, which is honestly the last thing you want to do because your body wishes to hibernate. So, being the super dad I am, I am gutting it out and finishing this post, which, by the way is all about kids this time.

Being a stay at home father is an interesting experience in gender norms and societal roles. I understand that our society is trying to become more PC and being a stay at home dad isn’t as odd as it would have been if it was my father. But, let’s face it, it not the normal thing and most people are a little fascinated. The reaction I get from telling people I am a stay at home father is mostly positive. From the women it’s mostly, “Ahhh, that’s nice,” with an occasional “It ain’t that easy is it?” The men tell me either they are jealous and wish they could stay home from work (this coming is from the guys who don’t have kids or have never spent 3 to 4 consistent days alone with their own) or the men who have an idea what its like and tell me, “Wow, that would drive me insane.” Well, the baby just got up so I must take a break and go feed her…

I will try to yank this post back on track. Needless to say there are many interesting….Oh, the two year old is climbing on the table…

Alright, well now he is chasing the cat…

Yeah, I have no idea how I get things finished. *sighs* phone. Well great, now the wife is getting sick.

Where was I? Oh yes. So every now and again I will get that ignorant comment that my balls have been cut off, like some drunken buffoon at a party who suggested that happened to all those men who wear baby front carries. You also surprisingly get a lot of completely condescending remarks. Well they might not be really condescending remarks because most people don’t even realize they are doing it, but I sure don’t let them get past me! If I know you and you tell me I am doing a great job at taking care of my kids that’s a compliment and I thank you. If you’re some strange woman at the book store who tells my child he “did a real good job” keeping it together at story time, thanks, that’s nice. But to then turn to me and tell me I did a great job, too? No thanks, that’s fricken condescending. I don’t need you telling me I am doing a good job when I got two screeching children at my side. The only reason you’re telling me this is because I happen to be the ONLY man in the entire building, including the employees. Look, I understand that she is just trying to be nice and, again, I have minor anger issues, but my whole point is, would she had said something if I was a woman? Did she say anything to the woman right next to me with similar aged children who just so happened to also be screaming their heads off? No. So, treat me like the rest of the women in the store and ignore me. This brings me to the title of my post:

Don’t touch my kid.
Do I need to repeat it?
DON’T TOUCH MY KID!

Now, if you’re family or friends, go right ahead. Touch my kids all you want. Well, to a degree of course. But if I don’t know you, and unless death or serious injury is involved to either my child or someone else, don’t touch them. There are few, ok many, things that irritated me, but the list of things that will get me angry enough to actually show it is very short. For instance: The Steelers losing (Uggg…they should have won that game against the Giants!! If they could have just stopped tripping over themselves!!). Another HUGE one is a stranger touching my kids. And you know what? I don’t feel bad getting angry over this. This is a natural instinctual drive here. You don’t step between a mama bear and her cubs and you sure as hell don’t step between a Super Dad and his kids. Let me give you an example for those of you who might not understand.

A couple of months back I was at the park. Usually during the day I am the only adult male there, but this was a weekend and, you know what, forget it, that doesn’t matter. What matters is this; I am sitting on a bench with my infant on my knee. She is wearing a nice little sun dress with coordinated socks and matching sun hat, which I happened to pick out. She is a little fussy so I am bouncing her on my knee because she likes that. I turn my head to get a bead on my 2 year old. He enjoys throwing rocks into the garbage. Why? Cause he is two. The garbage can is relatively close to the stream. I know the exact distance my child can get to the stream before I have get up and start yelling at him. This imaginary line is the distance I can catch him at a dead sprint if he tries to leap into the stream. So, my head is turned and I am keeping a Super Dad eye on him. The infant starts to fuss a little harder, but my attention is still on the 2 year old. He retreats from said line so I turn back around to find some strange woman directly in my face. She proceeds to say something like, “Oh looky here, her bonnet is over her eyes,” and then starts adjusting her hat.

(Again I promised I wouldn’t swear in this blog so)
WHAT THE *@#$!!??
What are you doing!!??

I don’t promote violence in any sort of way. Well, except on the football field of course, and when spiking the volleyball on someone, but in our normal lives it is completely unnecessary. I will never strike my children and violence against not just women but EVERYONE is never needed. But on that day I wanted to slap that woman. I wanted to slap her right across the face. What faulty firing axon in your brain actually let you believe that’s ok? Is it because I am sitting here with my Slipknot T-shirt, my uncombed hair, and my male reproductive organs? Perhaps in her eyes I have it stapled on my forehead that I need help. Hey, thanks, I don’t need help, alright? Don’t touch my children! I don’t need your help. I like to think I’m pretty dang good at what I do. My two year-old is happy most of the time, he listens for the most part and is, quite frankly, a giant. So, I must be doing something right. Am I overreacting? I don’t think so. Not getting upset over something like this is going against nature. For those of you with kids, does it not make the skin peel off your skull when that random lady at the grocery store wearing bottle-cap glasses and reeking of cats reaches into the sanctity of your newborn’s stroller? Where have those hands been?! We are supposed to be wary of strangers. We have no idea where these people have been or what disgusting matter of deviancy they have covering their hands. I will never stop getting upset about strangers touching my children.

To close, I would like for all of you reading this to pass the word. Don’t touch other people’s children. Even if it’s a dad who has 4 kids and they are screaming and yelling and some desire to help kicks in, ignore it. If those kids aren’t about to seriously hurt themselves or anyone else just leave them alone. I know, I know, you might be just trying to help, but you’re not. So please don’t touch my kid.

Thanks again for reading. Please tell a friend and come back next week.

Laughing at myself till it becomes funny.

There is something very therapeutic about putting your personal feelings out to a bunch of strangers. You can pour out your thoughts on just about any subject without the worry of that agonizingly uncomfortable face-to-face moment. You know, that feeling you get the next time you see that friend after he had admitted, after a night’s worth of drinking, that he once had feelings for your wife. The next time you actually see him it’s never really the same again, just all awkward and sticky. Not actually knowing the people you speak or write to gives you that comfortable degree of separation that allows you to fully open up. Hmm…that would be a very good topic to post about, too. Perhaps I will. Anyway, this blog is for the few who can stomach taking a ride inside my mind. To hear the story about my little journey in life. Before we begin I should warn whoever thinks they are prepared for what is coming. First, I have come to the conclusion I am a naturally angry person. Not a “homicidal angry” or even a “Get drunk and beat up some frat kid angry”. No, I internalize. The “Boy, that pisses me off to no end! But I am not going to say anything” type of angry. I also have a very dry and a little off-kilter sense of humor. I find I am often the only one laughing at something in the room. Finally, I am intensely empathetic person who, at one time, could relate to just about anyone so strongly it has nearly destroyed me. What is this you ask?
That will have to be another post in itself. Now that that is over let us begin with post number one.

To start this thing off let me first say that I have written a book. It is good, so I am told. Well written and very interesting. Granted, all those who have told me are highly biased, friends family and such, but I will take compliments when they come. By the name of this blog you probably are wondering why I am not writing witty and quirky things about my children and pointing out the various ironic oddities of being a stay-at-home dad. Don’t fret, I will get to that. But right now I wish to tell you about the biggest project I have ever completed thus far in the thirty years I have been on this earth. Well, phase one of my project. Since I never figured I would get this far, I am pretty happy with myself. Well, was. You see, now I have started phase two of said project, which is publication of said book. Phase two is still very early. I have sent out 20 e-mail query letters to a variety of literary agents. I only used one source to get them all. The AgentQuery website or something like that. It’s only a start but within 2 hours I already got a “No”. A particularly ominous sign wouldn’t you say? It has been almost a month and only 40% actually took the time to e-mail me back. All “No”. I even got a personal e-mail from the president of some high tier literary agency who said maybe he is setting his standards too high but he just had too many clients at this time. I didn’t know if he was trying to tell me my query letter sucked or he actually thought about asking for more. Then I realized it began: Dear Author. Sooo…yeah, that hurt a little. I had really high hopes for an agent who just so happened to live down the street from me. He actually wrote an e-mail back saying it looked quite interesting, but no. He even put my name on top! I know I sound a “little” cynical and I know it’s just the beginning of a very long and tedious journey. But you know what? This sucks. This F’ing sucks a lot!

(As a side note: I am not going to swear in this blog. Why? Because I am thirty and dropping F-bombs and s-bombs is for when you’re a kid. If you have to constantly swear to emphasize your point you don’t have a good fucking point to start with. Maybe I will delve into more of that later.)

Do I sound angry? Frustrated? Perhaps, but not at the fact my first round of queries got zero. No, I am more mad at myself for getting so emotionally involved. When I started this whole project I promised myself I wouldn’t get all excited. That it was just something to as a creative outlet. That I could die knowing I wrote a book. How many people could actually say that? That I accomplished something creative that I could be proud of. That it was a fine hobby and that’s what it would always be, just a hobby. Buuuut, then people started reading it and they started liking it. So, naturally this got me a little excited, but I tried my hardiest to keep that in check. To keep telling myself that this is a very long project and the likelihood of someone with grammar skills on par with a chimpanzee and absolutely no writing experience actually getting published was realistically less then none. But of course in the back of my mind the little “what if” kept creeping up. The, “Hey man, you know what? You really got something special here. You could be DIFFERENT! You won’t find anyone who doesn’t like this book. You just might be onto something! You could be FRICKEN FAMOUS!!”

Then I started researching. Starting reading all the horror stories about it taking years and fricken years before you get published. That every single agent gets 8 billion queries in a single day. That your query letter is tossed into the garbage if you don’t even get the correct name or format right. That most of the time you don’t even get the courtesy of a return e-mail. Now that I think about it let me digress a tad. For those of you not in the “know”, a query letter is a short single page sent to prospective agents interested in the genre of your book. If they dig your idea they ask for a synopsis. Then, they MIGHT ask for some sample chapters. THEN, they MIGHT ask for your manuscript. Then they MIGHT pitch it to a publisher. The process is tedious and down right excruciating. I know, I know. I am whining. Again I am not angry at anyone or anything. Just angry that I let myself get so emotionally involved. But how can you not? I mean, really? What is more personal then putting your imagination out for the world to see? When someone reads your work they are, at that point in time, inside your head. No other medium can do that. If you are good at it you can make a reader see what you see, feel what you feel. It is both fantastic and horrifically frightening. The process of trying to get published is like having someone tell you your imagination isn’t good enough. That the hours I spent in the deepest dungeons of my mind, the place you lock up emotions so intense they have no name, trying to create something brilliant, was a waste. See how coming to terms with this is a little difficult? How, from my perspective, it is more then heart-breaking?

Yes, I realize there are hundreds, if not thousands of reasons why someone would not read my manuscript that have nothing to do with me or my ability to write. I am not in an agent’s shoes and have no idea what it’s like being them. That this ordeal is what all writers have to go through. Hey, you know what? Telling me that doesn’t help. How could it? I know that. I know I am not the first or the last who will flounder through this “bash your head against the wall” trip. In fact, thinking or being told that makes it worse. It just further emphasizes the point that I am nothing new and nothing special. A very negative way of thinking, wouldn’t you say? I warned you. But fear not, fellow readers. For I am dealing with this little issue the best way I know how. Quitting.

Quitting? Quit taking myself so seriously. That perhaps if I keep laughing at myself it will start being funny. When I started this blog entry, I stated writing to strangers is very therapeutic. (I told you I would get back to it) That not only do you negate the sticky face-to-face situations, you also get IT out of you. These feelings of rejection will pass. Perhaps I will get published perhaps I won’t, but soon I will reach a point where I understand that doesn’t matter. That writing is for me and anything else is just a byproduct.

Thank you for reading. My plan is to make this a weekly thing. Please come join me again.