I am a grown man.

I am brave.

I do my best to ignore bumps in the night and a creaky old house.

I knew that when we moved in we would have some adjusting to do. The girls would likely hear things and make up stories. I was ready.

When they found an old photograph from right after the house was constructed, it was black and white and showed the father and mother sitting on the back porch, I dismissed it as something that was left behind.

When some of the doors move, I know it is a hinge that is misaligned from the foundation settlement.

When the girls created a Mrs Potatohead and dressed her in red and named her Lola which is also the name of the late matriarch of the house, I let it slide. Kids pick up on things. I don’t think they knew any names at that point but maybe they did.

When it sounds like someone is walking away from me when I go to the door at the carport, I could care less. Houses have their history and their owners. No need to get all excited about imagined ghosts and scary things.

But tonight… I must have had these thoughts hidden around the corners of my mind. They swirled and sat near the front while they waited for something to jump out and grab me. I needed a drink from the kitchen so I went through the living room where presents had been opened earlier in the day. When I rounded the corner of the living room and encountered the upper half of a torso rising out of the carpet, I nearly shit my pants. The wide dark eyes. The sparkling nails. The fact that something was emerging from my carpet and smiling at the same time. It all happened so fast that I didn’t have time to scream or warn my family. I just uttered an “uuggghh” while all my muscles locked into a ball of fear.

When I awoke a few seconds later I was face to face with the demon in the living room floor. I had one thought ringing in my head crystal-clear; Why did I buy this for Christmas and who the hell designed it.


The room was darker. Stop laughing at me. 

My reptile brain didn’t even offer an alternative. It said, “Satan is crawling out of hell to eat your ankles.”

If you get freaked out over misplaced toys or strange shadows, this post is for you.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

How Not To Check In

On our recent trip to Colorado we broke up the drive out by stopping overnight in Kansas, creepiest state in the US. Seriously, “the hills have eyes” minus “hills”. Everything that isn’t nailed down just blows into Missouri. Kansas blows.
I tried to be understanding. The Great Plains stretch on for days and at the right spot on top of a rolling hill the view is breathtaking. The cattle feedlots are breathtaking too.

But it was at a Best Western hotel that I held my breath voluntarily. The scene was set before we arrived by a pulsing thunderstorm on the horizon. High winds, torrential rain, and cloud to ground lightning hounded us all the way to the hotel lobby. Supermom had arranged reservations about an hour before we arrived and she ran inside to get our room key.
She returned with a baggage cart and a key card to room 229. I parked the car and ran through the rain to the safety of our hotel.
I know the hotel was safe because we checked Kansas state gun laws and found that personal carry is an unspoken requirement in Kansas. I think the actual law states “Persons entering any public or private place of business shall brandish hand powered weaponry to maintain public welfare and general order. Section 4d. Subsection 22.f.IV”
The night manager stared with a glazed look in our general direction and I couldn’t decide if she was looking at us or at a demonic spirit climbing on the ceiling behind us. It is hard to gage where people are looking when their eyes are red and twitchy. We chose to ignore and continued to the elevator with our three wheeled, rolling luggage rack. The silence of midnight and the large tiger picture on the elevator wall fit nicely with the 1980’s horror movie motif.
Room 229 was almost the furthest from the elevator except for Room 230. We swiped the key card and it didn’t work. We turned around and went back down to the lobby. The night manager wobbled out to the front desk and reprogrammed the key. We tried again. More luggage in the strange elevator. More walking down the haunted hallway. More swiping with no green light.

“Are you sure this is the right room?”

“She said 229.”

“I’ll go tell her.”

“Good, Im sitting right here in the hall. Call me if I need to go somewhere else.”

I make the journey solo back to the front desk.

I hand the car to the manager and huff, “Still doesn’t work.”

“What room was it again?”

“You said 229.”

She takes the card and stares at it for a minute. Her eyes roll around a bit searching for consciousness I think.

“Did you say room 228?”

“No… How about this. My reservation is under [Underdaddy] so just look me up in the computer and lets make sure.”

After a little typing on the computer she looks up at me, “They haven’t checked in yet.”

“Then why did you give me a card? I am them.”

She looks at the card and then back at the computer.

“Who checked you in?”

You did, like three minutes ago.”

“Oh. I will just let you in the room. We can fix this in the morning.”

“Is 229 the room number? I don’t want to bust in on Yosemite Sam and get shot.”

She is on the computer again. “229 is [Underdaddy]”

“Sounds good Captain Obvious. Lets go open that door.”


We both went back to the elevator and I tried to make small talk to avoid her passing out or forgetting who I was.

“What is with the elevator and the weird holes in the frame?”

“We get all kinds of people out from under the elevator.”

WTF?!? I froze momentarily while that thought processed. Images of The Undead crawling through a crack under the elevator made me shiver.


“Keys. People lose their keys and phones so I have to get them.”


We walk silently down the hall and I am relieved to see that Supermom is still sitting on the luggage cart and not kidnapped by desert mutants who live in the walls. The keycard works and we thank the manager and hurry into the room.

Deadbolt. Lock. Towel over the crack at the bottom. Large furniture angled into the knob as a doorstop.

I check under the beds and in the closet before laying down for the night. I am keenly aware that screaming only makes other boogey men aware of fresh blood. I felt an eerie sense that we would die in our sleep. I slept like a soldier in a foxhole. A shallow foxhole called Kansas.

The next morning we awoke to sunlight and were surprisingly well rested. Off to Colorado to buy our wallaby. Stay tuned for more.

If you enjoy quality service at creepy motels then this post is for you. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Cleaning The Shotgun

As a father of many many girls I get the frequent question about “the dating years”. Well, not so much a question as a knowing look down the end of a nose followed by, “You better get your shotgun ready. Keep them boys at bay.”

My lord people. Are we such a violent and harsh society that it takes a threat of force to protect our children and convince teenage boys to think twice about their actions?

Absolutely. Without question.

But I have a better idea. Timing is critical for this idea to work right but if done correctly it will cascade as urban legend down through the years and cover all of my children in a protective blanket of mystery. “Mystery of what?” you say. Mystery of who I am and if I am indeed insane. Convince the first boy that comes around that something is wrong with you and the word will spread like wildfire. Let’s be careful here, I don’t mean something wrong like you wear women’s clothing to go jogging in the rain. Try and stick to upbeat but possibly psychotic under a happy faced disguise. The objective is uncomfortable fear not weird looks.

For example…
Scenario One: A young man is coming to our house to escort our daughter out on her first date. I instruct her to remain inside while I meet this fine young man and assess his mannerisms. She rolls her eyes at my quirky and overbearing nature. I promise to behave.

In anticipation of this day I will have prepared the following; one black garbage bag full of smashed watermelons and one pack of raw ground beef (Allow to sit for two days so flies are bouncing around the inside of the bag.), a fresh four foot hole around the side of the house near the edge of the woods, one dirty shovel.

Prince charming arrives a few minutes early. Two points for punctuality. I walk around the corner to the front of the house as he is getting out of his car. I imagine that I will be slightly sweaty with maybe some dirt smudged on my cheek. He will smile hesitantly and maybe even half wave to acknowledge me. I will stare for a second to increase the awkward, all the while beaming a Sunday church smile. Once the young man looks sufficiently confused I will thrust out my hand and say “Hi! I’m Jane’s father! Really nice to meet you. I know Jane is excited for her date.” He responds politely, “Hello, nice to meet you too sir. Oh yes I am excited too. I really respect Jane for her intellect and solid moral stances.” I’m sure this small talk is all heart felt but the moment will turn as I step up close and place an arm on his shoulder.

“Say, Dan, do you have just a second to help me with something?”

He will say yes, social protocol guarantees it. I will turn and head back around the corner of the house. I will place my dirty shovel on the ground near the freshly dug hole and beckon Dan to come closer. I say, “Grab the corners on that bag, CAREFULLY, you don’t want to bust this.” It will be much funnier to me than him and I will suppress a giggle, “huh hu hu ha ha ugghmm.”

The weight is lumpy and awkward with some mystery liquid sloshing in the bag and giving a half rotten smell. We heft the bag into the hole and I stare at it for a few moments in deep thought. I realize he is still standing nearby and I say, “Hey… Thanks for your help. And don’t tell anyone about this.”

“About what?” He looks confused and concerned.

“Exactly! I like you already!” Then I pick up the shovel and start filling in the hole. I talk over my shoulder as he walks slowly away, “You kids have fun. Don’t be late.”

Hopefully the first thirty minutes of the date will be spent trying to figure out what was in the bag. He may ask Jane what she knows but I refused to tell her earlier so the mystery will build. In fact, I will never mention the incident again. Each new wave of teenagers will carry the legend and try to solve the black bag mystery. Some of them will notice a sunken spot at the edge of the woods. The grass grows well in that spot. Perfect.

All I want is the title. The “crazy dad who buried someone in his yard” has a nice ring. It is like an old horror movie, the unseen is much more terrifying than something that can be visualized.

There may be other psychological warfare games that can produce the same results. Feel free to use any good ideas as your own or send me a better one. I’m open minded. And if you are planning on protecting your daughter’s virtue through intimidation this post is for you. You’re welcome.

Underdaddy to the rescue.

Love Nest

If you are going to start a family you have to find a place to call home. Almost every living land animal that reproduces and cares for its young builds some type of nest. Biology drives us to protect our offspring. We look for a safe haven to give birth and nurture development; A shelter. A den. A hollow log. This is a basic need along with food and water.

Shelter. Actually, this is the first thing people build on the survival show Naked and Afraid.

An unspoken rule in the search for asylum: The actual place you decide to live should not be the most hazardous thing in your life. Your house shouldn’t try to kill you. My wife and I missed this memo and, according to Darwin, should have been naturally unselected years ago. This is a story about the first place we called home house.

I don’t even know how to intro this story because nothing about moving into that house seems real. All I can say is that we were young and possibly on hallucinogenic drugs.

We scheduled a visit to look at the house. My wife isn’t from the area so she foolishly defers judgment to me and we take our tour. We pull into the driveway of the red brick house and I immediately notice that backing out will be a challenge. The driveway was off of a heavy traffic road, near a ninety degree curve, and the edge of the yard was lined with four foot hedges. Average car speed is about 35 miles per hour and visibility zero. The situation was begging someone to trigger a fiery pileup. But let’s keep an open mind here. Instant death from the driveway might not be that big of an issue. This house may still be awesome.

Note: There is a dormer window on the roof that is fake. I can see the shingles through the window. They didn’t even bother pulling the shingles off to build the fake window. More puzzling is that there is actually a second story that could make use of this window.

The realtor greets us with a smile and takes the key out of the lock box. The beefy deadbolt lock on the iron-barred storm door clicks open and it swings wide out onto the postage-stamp-sized porch requiring my wife and I to go back down a step. The second, solid wood door had a deadbolt also and no knob, just a pull handle. The deadbolt on the second door was controlled by a key pad. Somewhat like having a retinal scanner on Noah’s Ark. A little shoulder bump and that door opened right up into a freshly carpeted living area with freshly painted wallpaper. It was peeling in spots because new crappy wallpaper that is soaked in paint doesn’t stick to nicotine coated 1950’s wallpaper.

So visualize for a second…. The living area has a door directly ahead of us that concealed the water heater/random-electrical-connections/under-the-stairs area. A large opening on the right of that door gives passage directly into the “kitchen” which we can see has two pipes for the Washing Machine sticking out of the floor and some counter space. That is about all this kitchen had, seriously. We will revisit the “kitchen” in a moment.

To our left is an open doorway into a three foot square hallway with a door on every wall. Two lead to bedrooms and one leads to a bathroom in between. The door knobs to each room were some kind of ancient iron with the keyholes that you could look through. You know, the skeleton key style. The doors looked like someone’s wagon broke down on the Oregon Trail so they sold the sides and someone said, “Those would make great doors.” Inside the “master” bedroom there was a small closet that had a dark opening at the top left into the space between the floors. My sister is along for the ride and comments that, “This reminds me of the house on The Grudge.” I agree.

That is the entire first floor. Six hundred square feet of disappointment. The backside of the kitchen has an undersized doorway leading to a loft and bedroom with a recent bathroom addition. The house isn’t a true two-story so the ceiling is slanted like the roof and the walls are lower on two sides. The bathroom upstairs is shoved to one side so you have to lean right to enter and stoop over to pee without hitting your head. Girls are fine until you stand up. I think the shower was a hollowed out refrigerator that was plumbed to the vent pipe of the bathroom below. This is 100% true stuff.

Notes on the second story, the roof is apparently leaky and the wallpaper is peeling everywhere. Oh and the bathroom has one light bulb that you have to pull a string to turn it on and off.

Now let me ask you a question, “What would be the instant, knee-jerk reaction of anyone who hasn’t been huffing spray paint?”
Answer: To make an offer at the listing price and move in? Oh yeah, living the American Dream.

Except we needed a co-signer. Our credit was collectively so bad that we couldn’t buy a demon possessed, leaky death trap that nobody actually wanted. No surprise that they accepted the offer. Did I mention the creepy and rotted out shop building that was included for free? Neither did the sellers.

Wow! Homeowners! We have a castle to build our fairytale kingdom. Time to move in and take control of our destiny! Time to take a deep breath and let the experience sink in for a moment. Keep in mind that we chose this place specifically to begin our lives together, to bring children into the world. Impressive.

So on move in day I actually have to work but my wife is so excited that she says, “I’ll spend the day moving some of the smaller boxes and we can finish the big stuff when you get home.” Spoiler alert – The big stuff was a wicker papasan and a double bed. I agree.

Our nest.

Our nest.

Later that day I get a phone call from my not-so-excited wife. She is in a hushed whisper, “You need to come to the house right now.”

“Why, what is wrong? Why are you whispering?”

“There is a strange man who stopped to help me carry boxes, he says he lives behind us and his name is Dollar Bill.”

“How do you know his name?”

“He said, “What it is! What it is! My name is Dolla’ Bill and imma help you move.””

My ADHD guides my response, “I wonder if he is related to Fifty Cent? I bet it is his dad because fifty cents is half of a dollar.” I’m an idiot sometimes.

In an angry whisper she says, “That’s not the point! He drives a serial killer van!”. I hear her change her tone of voice and talk to someone obviously in the same room, “Oh thank you so much, my husband says thank you too and he is on his way so I think we have it.”
The mystery man leaves and she tells me, “Get your ass to this house now.”

We are surprised by our strange neighbor so we do the reasonable thing and look at crime databases on the internet. Lo and behold there is a registered sex offender on the same side street as Dollar Bill and he has a listed alias that I won’t put on here for safety concerns, let’s go with Wild Bill. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, his offense was statutory for relations with a 17 year old girl, maybe he is twenty and just made a bad decision and got caught in the grey area of the law? Nope, Wild Bill was a 57 year old welfare recipient on disability. Yee Haw.

This neighborhood is shaping up to be epic. The side street I mentioned is actually along one side of the property so we lived on a corner. It was on this corner that I saw my first real life prostitute. She picked up a John who was driving a dark blue Chevy Celebrity. I even overheard them discussing rates for services. All I know is it sounded like an awful lot of service for less than the price of an expensive date. If you could get past the missing teeth, manly face, and questionable skin problems. I think all of these are symptoms of Herpagynosiphylaids. Apparently those problems don’t bother awesome men driving Chevy Celebrity’s.

Possibly the most stylish and impressive thing to ever come out of Detroit.

Possibly the most stylish and impressive thing to ever come out of Detroit.

Neighborhood summary within a one block radius; Father of a famous gangster, registered sex offender, and active prostitution.

I bought a beware dog sign and let Dog outside every time someone strange was walking down the street. Let’s not forget a leftover from my wife being a spoiled brat is that her car was a Toyota MR-2 Spyder so we looked like crack dealers.

Mother Mary full of grace, please protect us. We just won’t go outside ever. We will live here a few years and try to sell before we have a baby. Perfect plan except for living for a few years and expecting to sell to anyone ever.

Within the first week of living in the new house we discovered several internal problems that I describe below with a bold word that identifies the danger of each item:
1) The waterlines for the washer were two pieces of plastic pipe sticking up through the floor and held in place by spray foam. No actual connection to anything. They drilled two holes in the floor, held a four foot piece of pipe in the hole and sprayed foam to hold it in place to give the appearance of water lines. There was no outlet for either washer or dryer and no vent for the dryer. WOUNDED PRIDE
2) There was an outdated plug for the stove which I replaced and found that it had been wired with an orange extension cord. FIRE HAZARD
3) The sink didn’t drain properly and we found that most of the plumbing was the old steel or lead pipe with thick corrosion on the inside. GENERAL HEALTH RISK
4) There was no AC and the heaters were two floor grates that burned out within one week of us trying to turn them on. Heating in the winter was done with space heaters and blankets over doorways to keep heat in certain rooms. The upside was that we saved money by not having to run the refrigerator, we just left the door open to the 30 degree kitchen air and left the sink slowly dripping all winter. We had a record snowfall of 13” that year. FIRE HAZARD AND HYPOTHERMIA
5) The space heater wouldn’t fit into the bathroom and the tub was made of steel. The shower would have to run for a few minutes to beat down the cold chill from the tub. Once you turned the shower off the bathroom was a comfortable 45 degrees. Better dry your hair before leaving the bathroom or it would freeze into what I called a poverty helmet. EXTREME SHRINKAGE
6) One day we noticed a sound of birds coming from the wall in the center of the house. Closer inspection revealed that there was a fireplace that was walled up but never capped, a family of bluebirds built a nest at the bottom of the old chimney and kept us company in the living room with their chirping. AVIAN FLU PANDEMIC
7) Living in the tornado zone known as Dixie Alley it is recommended that you find an interior room to take shelter during a tornado. We had a tornado that year and were faced with a cruel decision. The only interior room was the under-stair closet that housed open electrical wires and a hot water heater. Any damage to the room would result in third degree burns and/or electrocution. I got a beer and sat on the porch. At that point at least my death would be interesting. Who wants to be crushed by bricks and bad decisions. SKIN GRAFT, IMPALEMENT, ELECTROCUTION
8) The windows needed re-glazing which means that air flowed freely between the glass panes. See Kids are Creepy for how this one turned out. HEART ATTACK FOLLOWED BY DECREASED SENSE OF SELFWORTH
9) The only air conditioner we could get was a window unit that would cool the living room in the summer so we kept the doorway blankets up year round. Very exotic to have drapes as entryways. HEAT STROKE

The only other thing of note, was that in February on a night where the low was 6 degrees, I get a knock on the door. It is a lady in her early fifties in flannel pajamas and she smelled like a three day old beer. Possibly the mother of Quasimodo? She was shivering and out of gas so I took her and a 5 gallon bucket to the only station open at 3 am. We put the gas in her truck and she manages to drive home or at least away from mine. I feel like it was the right thing to do because she ‘surely would have died’ and allowing her to drive away knocked that down to a ‘maybe could die’. I help where I can.

A couple of months later she stops by, I thought to say “Thanks!”. She said in a slurred drawl, “ ‘member when you helped me a few months ago? That was so nice.”
“Well thank you I hope you are doing well.” It is nice to hear appreciation for my generosity.
She kept talking, “Actually I’m not very well and I need to get my medicine. Do you have about $40 dollars that you could loan me to get my medicine.” This random boozer just hit me up for money after I basically saved her life. How do you have the balls to ask a stranger for $40 for a prescription. Hell no. I’m not starting that dependency.
I try nip that in the bud, “No I helped you not die in 6 degree weather, buying medicine is something I think you need to handle.”
She appeared to be angry, “Well I’m sorry I stopped by.”
“Me too. Both times. Try to check your tank before you go binge drinking for the night. And soap, try some soap.” People are amazing.

This was our Love Nest. We made a poor choice.

So if you carefully planned, saved, shopped around, and secured the right home in the right school district after both starting careers that paid actual money then you are better at this parenting thing than me. If you moved into the first shitty house that looked your way and put several lives in danger just by sleeping there at night then this story is for you. You’re welcome.

Underdaddy to the Rescue.

I Lost My Manginity

Sometimes I ponder how unmanly I have become in the past few years. I could claim that I had no choice in the matter. After all, everyone in our household is female. Wife, four girls, girl dog, girl cat. Every living thing around me is biologically capable of bearing fruit. I bet if I look close enough, the wilted and neglected tomato plant in the backyard has a vagina. I’m sure estrogen coats my walls. Maybe it will leave shadows of clean wall behind picture frames and chest of drawers when we move. Like an elderly chain smoker had lived here for decades. The new owners will probably need new curtains. But I can’t blame the women in my life. My decline started well before my family was formed.
Rewind to a time before I discovered my superpower of self-depreciation and I would say that on the surface I was somewhat manly.
Let’s take an inventory of what being male looked like;

Sports Car – Check
Leather Bomber Jacket – Check
Physically Fit – Yup
Favorite Music – Hip Hop
Miscellaneous Street Signage on my wall – Of Course
Favorite Pastime – Beer
Favorite Swear Word – Fuck

I don't recall much about this person at all.

I don’t recall much about this person at all.

Amazing. From these spectacular beginnings I reached a point, a climax, a fight or flight moment when I exposed myself as a liar.

I met the love of my life who I knew I could marry the night we met. She took about three months to return my calls but that story is for another day. She eventually gave in to my stalking and before long we got a dog. A pet/first child who I will call Dog. The addition of Dog to our small family made Sports Car unwieldy and it gave way to small SUV. I use SUV liberally here, I think it was a RAV4 body on a go-cart frame but the three of us fit happily.

Of course I want to capture this moment. Who doesn't want to see the death of pride up close.

Of course I want to capture this moment. Who doesn’t want to see the death of pride up close.

Then as everyone knows happiness equals weight gain, ergo Leather Bomber Jacket and Physically Fit both fell off the list. Girlfriends have an aversion to felony theft and my bad boy first impression was intact so the street signs (which were totally not obtained in any questionable way by myself and two friends on a Wednesday night) had to go. Time marches on and with wedding, jobs, and sissy man sinus problems, beer also became a fond memory for me. At least I had my swearing. Sure profanity and expletives are unnecessary and are always a sign that you don’t have a good grasp on what you are trying to say, but nothing makes you feel like a man like a rebellious “Fuck It”.

Not in front of the baby though. We are always in front of the baby. So there I was releasing the last thing on my manly list. I was oblivious that the list had even existed but my test lay just around the corner.

Dont worry little baby. I will protect you at all costs.

Dont worry little baby. I will protect you at all costs.

One fateful night Mommy and I were relaxing on the worlds cheapest couch. Our two bedroom mansion, which may be on MTV cribs, was dark and silent with only a dim lamp on in the living room. We had just our baby, One, to bed and popped in a DVD. The selection for the evening was the Amityville Horror because Mommy likes scaring herself out of her mind and sending me to the kitchen to fetch things while I try and pretend like I’m not creeped out too. After all, I may have sold out my man list but I have a child, dog, and wife to protect. I am still a man.

The weather forecast for the evening was severe thunderstorms. Perfect.

I plan on a story about this first house of ours at a later date but some important details are necessary. This house was constructed by the Pastor of the church across the street. I assumed he lived there until he realized that free wasn’t always worth the price. Maybe he joined a mission overseas so he could have more reliable housing, who knows. The ultimate irony about the house is that while the oak framing was robust enough to burn out saw blades, every other aspect of the house was awful and it was in no way airtight.

The movie was getting to the suspenseful part near the end and the approaching thunderstorm was rumbling in the distance. In a creepy coincidence our front door blows open at the same time as a jumpy moment in the movie. Lightning flashes outside and we laugh a nervous laugh as I shut the front door. I make sure it clicks shut and we pause the movie. Not because we were scared but because of the thunderstorm.
As we sat in the silent and eerie glow of the paused horror show we noticed a scratching sound coming from the baby’s room. Nothing all that horrible but definitely a noticeable scratching. Leaves are blowing around in increasing gusts in the yard and the lightning is getting more frequent with the thunder getting louder. Still more scratching, so Mommy nominates me to investigate.

I quietly throw my shoulder at the crooked door and it pops open. The streetlight outside casts a glow through the oak tree across the room and the wind makes the shadows dance back and forth. The baby crib is near the window and baby One is sleeping soundly. Even so there is still a scratching and it is coming from the window. I step towards the window and squint in the dim light. I am inches away from the window when all hell breaks loose. A mighty wind blows against the window and a crack in the edge of the window lets out a banshee scream. The high pitched squeal scared the absolute shit out of me and I ran as fast as I ever ran out of the room and slammed the door behind me.
Mommy says, “What is it! What happened?!?”
My heart is pounding but even now I realize that it was the wind. I reply between breaths, “I think the window screamed at me. That thing is alive.”
“And you left our child with it!?” she said with a haunting disappointment.

This was the exact moment I gave up any pretense of being manly. I had just abandoned my first born child to the jaws of a whistling window monster and I even closed the door so it wouldn’t come get me too. We had a good laugh but I think a small part of me died that night.

So if you have never abandoned your child to save your own ass in the face of danger, you might be a better parent than me. You’re welcome.

Underdaddy to the rescue.