Donna Threeto


My children do things that disturb me.  I have worked hard to have them embrace their weirdness. To bolster their self-image and give them a sense that they are free to be who they want to be. I dare say the scheme has worked. They could give two shits what anyone thinks. They laugh at things they find funny and they use the word “fart” freely in public. I’ve instructed them in the fine art of shutdown of a bully through a sharp wit. I’ve heard them tell a boy that they didn’t care what he thought and they are way weirder than he could imagine so back it off. When we get a notice from school that the kids can ignore uniform rules on a Friday, Jane will pack a Lord of the Rings style cloak into her backpack and wear it all day. I caught her wearing a fox tail into school one morning and she was too far away for me to stop her. They have personal confidence. I can probably put this ship on autopilot for a while. I might even need to shame them a little for balance.

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, Supermom found her old Barbie’s in boxes in the attic. We brought a couple of the boxes home and the girls have been playing with them non-stop. The only problem is how they are playing with the Barbie’s. They think old style Barbie with non-existent underwear is the funniest thing ever. I have found half-naked Barbie in terrible poses all around the house. The kids hide her and then wait for me to find her topless torso in the kitchen utensil drawer while they look on from the other room. I act surprised and they die laughing only to run off and hide another Barbie somewhere else in the house.

Last night the game escalated.

Supermom called out from the bathroom, “You have to come see this.”

I walked into the bathroom and found this on the sink.


I assume that Barbie crossed Skipper one too many times. Maybe the right-sized Barbie got jealous of the long legs and skinny arms from vintage Barbie. Either way, the kids thought this was really funny too.

What other disturbing things have they been up to? Hmmm. Oh wait I know. They insist on sleeping together every single night. All four of them in a make-shift king bed (two twins pushed together). I laugh a little at the thought of some people who probably had to share a bed thinking about how nice it would be to have their own space while my wolf cubs insist on sleeping like sardines. That isn’t the weird part. In fact, I find their strong urge to co-sleep kind of endearing; as long as they stay out of my bed.

The weird part was two nights ago.

I heard a strange series of thumps and, being a competent parent, I went to investigate. I found Donna Threeto curl up inside a large plastic container that she had placed in her quadrant of the community king bed. I dumped her out of the box and took it away. She was angry. She insisted that she wanted to sleep in a box. Twice she snuck out of the room to get the box and put it back in her bed. I locked it away in the closet. What in the world? Who tries to sleep in a box? The other girls acted like it was the most normal thing ever. This is coming from the same kid who has pondered the tooth fairy and instead of questioning her existence decide to call our bluff by cutting her hair and placing it in a ziplock bag under her pillow. I asked her, “Why did you do this to your hair?”. She replied, “I’m getting a dollar from the hair fairy.” She then stared at me to gauge my response to the idea of a fictional character. Well played Donna.

I didn’t dare leave a dollar for hair. We would all wake up bald when she realized what a goldmine was all around her. Not my head so-much but her sisters.

Also worthy of note. Supermom has embraced the small dog and bought him a sweater. Meet GQ Jasper.


And Jane is working on a Science Fair project that is centered around swabbing animal spit and watching the bacteria grow. We want to see which animal has the most aggressive mix. Our test subjects are Cat, Dog, Squirrel, Rabbit, Gecko, Horse, Goat, Chicken, Human, and a blank Control sample. Leave a comment to guess which animal was the worst. I’ll share the answer in my next post. The horse is shown as the cover photo to give an idea of what it looks like when animal spit is cultured in a dish.


This should be one of my kids. I would be so proud. 

Life rolls on here at the Underdaddy house. If you enjoy quirky everyday stories, this post was for you. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Indoor Fishing

I am happy to report that Don Threeto has learned an important lesson in personal responsibility. First though, I have recently discovered that the female form of a mafia Don is Donna. Heretofore Don Threeto shall be known as Donna Threeto or still DT for short. If you are asking “Who is Don Threeto?” then click the link and come back here when you are done.

Okay, so I came home the other day to find Donna happily playing with a yellow bouncy ball that she got from school. Lady Bug was following her around as they bounced it into walls and down the hallway. Jane was giving orders on where to bounce the ball and how hard. After a few moments of giggling I heard a splash followed by a few moments of pregnant silence that eventually gave birth to “Daaadddd!” I walked to the rear of the house and found three children in a semi-circle around the toilet, staring into the depths of the murky water.

It might be worth mentioning that in the world of toilet training the only step that none of my children have mastered is the art of flushing. Just yesterday I came home to find the dog drinking from the toilet. I knew the water might have been tainted so I chased Judy Cornbread from the bathroom and flushed the toilet for good measure. I wasn’t prepared. There was a mountain of milk-dud turds rising from the dark yellow toilet water like a mid-sea volcano. A driftwood line of toilet paper was the only evidence of the previous water level. Judy stood in the hallway licking her lips. Apparently, pee-turd-tea is a canine delicacy. Now back to the story…

Luckily, when the bouncy ball fell into the toilet it found a much cleaner environment. I looked in and the smiley face was sitting on the bottom of the bowl looking up at the four of us.

“Get it daddy”, urges the Donna.

“Oh no. If you want your ball then you have to get it out. I’ll just flush it.”

“But I got it from school! It’s my ball!”, she pleads.

“Exactly. Your ball. Not mine. If you want it then you get it.”

The pleading gets redirected to her sister, “Get it for me Jane! Help me!”

At this point I stepped back and watched the negotiations between the children. I could have just as easily have been watching three superpower countries discussing nuclear disarmament. In the end, all the nations reached the same conclusion; The ball belongs to Donna Threeto so she should retrieve it. I was proud at their learning progress and realization of what skin-in-the-game looks like. I was doubly proud when DT rolled up her sleeve and closed her eyes before plunging her hand into the toilet water. She was not prepared to lose that ball and I was fully prepared to flush it.

We washed the ball and her hands. Her sisters stood silently in awe of her bravery. Donna added to her already impressive list of street-cred.

If you are tired of putting up with crappy situations, this post is for you. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.