Underdaddy

The Butthole Game

Keep your hands to yourself. It is the number one rule. One of many that they ignore constantly. I’m not entirely sure why I try to maintain any respectable behavior at all. It isn’t like I’m good at any kind of punishment or maintaining consistency.

The first time Jane said “shit” it was perfectly in context. I would have said shit in that scenario. She was walking along with a cup of cereal or juice or something and tripped, flinging it all over the floor. She might have been channeling my inner thoughts because I was thinking, “Great. Now I have to fix another one. Shit.”

In high school I used to play hacky sack. I would say I was casual and didn’t play religiously but we played at youth group so maybe I only played religiously? Anyway. One of the games was a variation of red dot. Basically, if you let the hacky sack drop then you stand against a wall and someone throws it at you. Duck your head and cover your junk and you will be fine. Maybe you will have a bruised kidney or something but what’s a little organ damage to a seventeen year old? So remember this game; Make a mistake = Get punished. Moving on.

There was another game called Corndog. The rules of this game were more random. If someone is standing around and oblivious to their surroundings and engaged in a discussion with someone else then using a hand in the karate chop style you would cram your victims pants into their butt crack with a vertical chopping motion and yell “CORNDOG!” This game was more about violation of physical boundaries by adolescents. I would blame this on guys but I was “introduced” to this game by a female in a group of people I had just met. Awkward. It is a strange bond to have with someone who has karate chopped a wedgie into your butt crack.

My children, whom I hoped to protect from both types of silly and unnecessary games, have nullified my efforts. Tonight I heard Threeto say out loud, “Let’s play the butthole game.” I thought to myself, sweet Jesus what sort of fresh hell is this? Naturally I rushed to investigate.

UD: Hey! What kind of game is this Butthole? It doesn’t sound like anything you should be playing.
Jane: Really dad? We have been playing for years.
UD: That doesn’t sound good.
Prima: We ask each other questions and if you get the answer wrong…
Threeto: (Forms a fist with the middle knuckle raised. Proceeds to punch herself in the butt.) BAM!
Jane: You get punched in the butthole!
UD: I… (I started to laugh because of how serious Threeto had punched herself. I felt laughing didn’t send the right message so I excused myself for a minute.) I’ll be right back. (Still laughing)

I retreated to the kitchen where Supermom was working on a cake.

Supermom: What?
UD: They are playing a game called butthole and punching each other in the butthole.
Supermom: Why are you laughing? That isn’t funny.
UD: I know right? I am so uncomfortable that I am just laughing. I will talk to them. I just need a minute.
Supermom: What is wrong with them? Good God.

I bravely walked back to the bedroom full of giggling children.

UD: Okay that’s it! No one punch anyone in the butthole!
Jane: But you were just laughing.
UD: Uuummm. Threeto had a booger. Butt punching is not funny. I wasn’t laughing at that. NO PUNCHING BUTTS!
All: Okay…

I hope my bluff holds. The last thing anyone needs is explaining any of that weirdness.

UPDATE – I finished the top part of this last night and went to bed.
Then at 4:00 AM. A loud knocking on my bedroom door.
UD: UUUGH. What?!?
Jane: Prima needs you. She won’t stop crying.
I got up and walked into the room.
UD: What is it Prima? Why are you crying?
Prima: *sniffle* Coffins…
UD: What?
Prima: I’m scared of coffins.
UD: You woke me up at 4 am because you are scared of coffins?
Prima: They are scary.
UD: You are campaigning for one. Go back to sleep. (I say really crappy things when I am tired)
Prima: Okay.
UD: I love you though, but stop obsessing over things and go to sleep.

Everyone went back to sleep. The next morning I talked with Jane to make sure they knew not to play any games that were awful. We all acted like nothing happened at 4am.

UD: So you girls aren’t playing the butt punching game right?
Jane: No, we are playing a better game.
UD: What is that?
Jane: Death tickles.
UD: You girls are really letting me down here. *sigh* What is death-tickles?
Jane: Threeto acts like she is tickling you but she pinches and scratches you.
UD: Don’t play that either.
Jane: Uuuugh. Can’t we do anything?
UD: Yes. Anything. Just not anything that causes physical harm.
Jane: I knew it. We can’t do anything.

I am just blaming public schools at this point.

If you think public schools are allowing your innocent angels to learn horrible games, this post is for you. You’re welcome.I agree. Surely my little angels wouldn’t come up with all this violent madness on their own.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

News From the Front

I am watching a nature show. Disney Jr is doing a short segment on how a troop of monkeys (troupe?) looks after the baby monkeys. I feel like I am looking in a mirror instead of a television. One child is climbing the side of the couch and jumping off into a pile of laundry. One child is pilfering through my hair. Lady Bug is sitting on my lap and alternating between poking my nipples and my bellybutton. I have no idea where her fascination with poking nipples comes from but she giggles every time. I silently remind myself why I always wear a shirt, because you can’t trust a kid around a nipple.

There was this other time when it was really late at night and Supermom was tired from rocking a crying baby. I rolled out of bed and took the baby and lay her gently against my chest. The next thing I know there was a rushing of air like the sound a vacuum makes when you stick the hose to someone’s face. Awkward. I plucked the lactic leech off the male mammary and began the wise habit of always wearing a T-shirt. You never can be too safe.

Speaking of false sense of security, our youngest had a random blowout diaper. The kind that bubbles up the front and onto the floor, her hands, and my bed sheet as she rushed to tell mommy she had pooped. Once again we were up until midnight waiting for dry blankets. I am ready for this potty training thing to begin. We are down to one excretory system that requires diapers in this house, which is nice. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I have friends with children who are making strides towards potty training. One such child reached the milestone of recognizing the urge to poop and removing her own pants to poop… directly in the center of the carpet. She was so proud. That is definitely a time to be a glass-half-full kind of guy. My kid calls me over before she shits and basically keeps me on standby to repair the damage she is about to do in her diaper. She doesn’t want to try the potty. She just wants a peasant nearby to wipe her royal ass to prevent chaffing.

This kid knows how to go and GI Joe says knowing is half the battle. It kind of looks like a prancing Irish Setter at a dog show.

Other big news this week…

Don Threeto practiced cutting hair and Supermom had to carry Lady Bug to get some minor shaping. She was combing the knots out of Lady Bug’s hair before leaving and she stopped to send me this text…

I remember going to the Children’s Museum and getting lice from trying on the fireman’s helmets. It is something like a rite of passage for children to have a lice scare at some point. But a flea? And a mystery flea at that. Where did it come from? The main culprit, our dog, has been reduced to ashes and crammed in a wooden box. She didn’t do it. Everyone else is in the clear. The house has been double sanitized and the cat was inspected better than a strange bag at an airport. The only thing we can figure is that she got it from playing with the outside dogs or rolling in the grass. Who knows?

Which brings me to my next question, what pest treatment have you found most effective for children? Flea collars? The squeeze on liquid that you put between their shoulder blades so they can’t scratch? Or should I alternate bath soaps from Johnson and Johnson to Hartz Flea and Tick Dip?

Leave me a vote in the comments.

If your kids poke nipples, crap in the floor, or have fleas, this post is for you. I promise our kids are well cared for and the appropriate amount of attention is given to all things hygienic. I made a promise a while ago to be open and honest to my readers and myself so here you go. This wasn’t the first disgusting week and it won’t be the last. Supermom is preparing a guest post about cleaning the playroom. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Boo Yah 2015

Halloween is, by far, my favorite holiday. There is something about dressing up as something or someone different that feels fun. It captures everything good about childhood imagination and makes it socially acceptable for adults to participate. Yes please.

Last year we went as My Little Ponies and it was lots of fun. Mostly for the wayward looks from other adults when a Rainbow Dash with five-oclock-shadow came lumbering up to the front door and said, “trick or treat”. A man at one of the houses stared at me all wide-eyed and asked, “You have four little girls?” To which I said, “Yes.” Then he asked if they made me dress as a pony which I again replied affirmatively. He shook his head side to side and said, “That’s the scariest shit I’ve seen all day.”

Cold blooded fear.

This year wasn’t quite as scary. In fact, I got to go as my alter-ego – Underdaddy. Which I guess is the main ego if you are reading this on the Underdaddy website but anyway. My youngest sister got me an official uniform for Christmas last year and it fit with our Halloween theme of superheroes.

We asked each of the girls what they wanted to be if they could choose their own superpower. Jane said she wanted the power to talk with animals. She got the costume of “Animal Girl”. Prima wanted to be super-fast so she got to be “Lightning Girl”. Don Threeto wanted the power to change into different animals, I assume this would assist in the commission of a crime or maybe it is just generally awesome. She became “Beast Girl”. Lady Bug said something completely unintelligible. It was somewhere between a grunt and a scream so we made her “Question Mark Girl”. Supermom and Underdaddy were kind of set in stone.

I thought it was really cool that they each chose those superpowers because if you ask me, they already possess the skills they most admire. Jane is immersed in animals and is very good with them already. Prima is very quick witted and a fast learner. Threeto has the smooth acting skill of a Dustin Hoffman or a Johnny Depp – when she tells a lie she is committed to the part. Lady Bug is our little unknown, she keeps us guessing.

We decided to streamline the costumes a little for economy because we are poor people and Halloween is about candy and fun not Hollywood level special effects. Everyone would have the same basic costume; all black sweats and socks. Then the capes and masks would be different colors and have our own symbols. Like the ninja turtles but instead of being mutant turtles underneath the masks we would be cat burglars. I stopped at a gas station with only my sweats and the attendant was a little nervous that I was dressed in all black. I don’t know if the cape would have helped or not.

Supermom is sporting some pearls like a true southern queen.

Trick or treating went well. I mean it was raining and we went to a neighborhood where the Home Owners Association requires six thousand steps as an approach to the front porch but all-in-all it was a fun time. We teamed up with some cousins that we don’t see very often and made some memories in the rain.

A noble assembly. Candy will be gotten.

I didn’t do a great job educating the girls on Trick-or-Treat etiquette. We went to one house with decorations but no one was home. They knocked politely but after about ten seconds of no one coming to the door they had a frenzied moment of attempted breaking and entering. They were convinced that there was candy just beyond the door and we had been to three houses with no one home. This one had decorations dammit! There has to be candy! One started working the door handle back and forth while another rang the doorbell like an air raid siren. The third one was looking through the windows from the bushes and I think my forth child was trying to break into the soffit vent. I rushed to the front door while expecting to hear glass breaking at any second. “Guys, guys… We arent rescuing candy that has been kidnapped. This is just an empty house. There is more candy.” Luckily the next few houses were occupied and fully staffed for Halloween activities.

As far as the candy production, we were in the right spot. This neighborhood was definitely a place of first world problems because I have never seen so many full sized candy bars given out in my life. One house had a wicker basket with assorted Hershey, Reese’s cups, Snickers, or Payday’s in neat little rows like an upper middle class vending machine. I remember sorting through Smartees and Milk Duds and being left with this Halloween mulch of inedible candies. Not this time. Each bucket is full of awesome candy, When Jesus returns, he might decide to stick around and raise a family just to go trick or treating at this place. In fact, three of the houses were already decorated for Christmas with fully lit trees and wreaths on the door. Maybe the neighborhood is campaigning for that scenario.

Candy Hangover.

We finished up the night by letting the girls eat too much of their candy and allowing them to spin in screaming circles for about three hours. Then we drove home and got in about mid-night. This morning I was reminded of my place in the sub-urban food chain by my “decorations” on the front sidewalk. They are the scariest pumpkins ever. They exude death, decay, and neglect. They scream out “Beware to all who enter. This is where things go to die.”

I dare you to smash them. Trick or treat indeed. Ha ha, now you have the plague.

Maybe I will scrape them off in time for Thanksgiving. Maybe.

If you love the holiday but lack the effort that is required to be awesome, this post is for you. You’re welcome. We all know it is about the candy anyway.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

I Love You Daddy

“I Love You Daddy!”

Sometimes I get this simple little sentence without even asking. It is enough to stop time for a second while I let it soak. Tingles run up my neck and, from time to time, I get a little teary. For just a moment I wonder if that feeling is love, unfiltered and running up my back? I want to think so.

My ADD kicks in and my mind fast forwards to explaining the concept to my girls. What are they being taught about love by the world?

I think we do a really crappy job of describing love as a base emotion. Movies and books would have us believe that love is something that happens instantly and without warning. We develop this idea that love needs to be proven. If he doesn’t do this or buy that then he doesn’t love me. If she won’t do this or that then she doesn’t love me. Love doesn’t require advertisement.

There are two areas that I think we all confuse with love.

One is obviously lust. Love at first sight is probably a misdiagnosed double-lust that happens to work out. I don’t mean to pop any bubbles but that is probably pretty accurate. I knew in a tenth of a second that I wanted my wife but I would be lying to say that, at that point, it wasn’t purely visual. She is a sexy lady, what can I say? Then she turned me down and played hard to get, which brings me around to the second misplaced emotion…

The need to be needed. The desire for someone to prove that you are likeable or worthy. This is the area that scares me the most for my kids. This is the feeling that becomes addictive for the bad relationships. A terrible falling out and emotional low, followed by a reunion and validation that you were worth something after all. Also in this category is the idea of having the power in a relationship. For instance, have you ever been in one that both of you knew it wouldn’t work out but the one who breaks it off first has the power? Never mind that 24 hours before everyone was miserable. The inevitable result is that the dumped person feels rejected and the dumper feels a hopeful freedom. Rekindling the romance usually ends up in the roles being reversed. The longing that remains is more self-doubt and disappointment than love.

So what is love? I’m not sure how to define it but the further I go, the more I learn.

This is what I have so far:

Love is putting a diaper on the dog because she is still happy and healthy but can’t control herself all the time. She taught us how to parent and deal with something that depended on us to live. She was our first child and devoted to her new pack.

Love is also, not putting her to sleep even though she snores like a Pug with a deviated septum.

Love is that same dog diving into a pool to rescue you while she knew the entire time that she couldn’t swim. It was a very “Titanic” moment.

Love is holding your youngest baby and singing Row Row Row Your Boat long after she is asleep because you let the phase pass to quickly and she doesn’t need you to sing anymore, but you do need it…. Kiss her head. Smell her sweet baby-shampoo hair. Notice how she is limp and relaxed against your body, totally trusting and deeply asleep. Comforted by you. Love lives here.

Love is crying like a baby while you write that last little bit down.

Love is letting them sleep in your bed sometimes. Not often, but enough.

Love is watching them care for one another, sometimes on purpose.

Love is rocking your sick child and wanting to take the fever and pain and carry it for them. To snuggle them hard enough to protect them from anything bad.

Love is dropping everything to play board games or have a sudden movie night.

Love is driving a minivan when you really want a sports car that plays loud music and drives too fast. Instead you have a sweet DVD player that you can’t watch but at least minivans still have warp-speed abilities to evade law enforcement. Probably more pity than speed getting me out of tickets.

Love is telling your children that you are an engineer and they assume that you are THE ONLY engineer and thereby a hero. A superhero scientist who has reached mental enlightenment and must know the answer to every question ever. They feel this way because they love you and most likely you have their trust.

Love is standing in the kitchen eating the leftovers of the meal because everyone needed something at different times and you never got a chance to sit down so you just played the part of waiter until everyone was finished.

Love is when the children want to be around you. Maybe not engaged with you necessarily but in the same room. Playing with plastic ponies and dragging in piles of books asking to read.

Love is what leaks out as tears when I scold a child that needed a hug instead and I have to pull her out of her shell to apologize. Holding them while they cry at their disappointment is a cruel punishment that I deserve.

Love is going into a hospital room while my wife is having a panic attack with a resting heart rate near 200 bpm and when I put my arms around her, the rapid heartbeat calms and there is a peaceful easy feeling that just comes from being together. This is the love that I love the most. Companionship. Someone who my world requires to feel right. The person who occupies the right side of the bed and three fourths of the comforter. When I am not working, we are most likely together. Fighting back the onslaught of life, side by side. She is my truth that if “Someone loves you, you are never rejected, decide what to be and go be it.”

Love is donating a kidney to your husband without a flinch or question. My mom did that.

Love is watching your mom entering that moment on a hospital gurney and knowing deep down she taught you enough and loved you enough to keep her spirit alive by sharing it with others. Love is saying a just-in-case goodbye by not saying much of anything and just letting the moment be. In some ways we spend our lives saying goodbye, a grand buildup to the climax of life. Anything worth saying probably already has been said. Tell your loved ones in those last moments but use all the time before to show them.

Love is knowing that the people in your past are just a mirror to your future. You don’t lose people you love. You keep the parts of them that are special. Those become a part of who you are and you spend the rest of your time giving those good things away to someone else. The slow flame that passes over us from one generation to the next, love is the flame. We are the fuel.

“Like a small boat, on the ocean, sending big waves, into motion, like how a single word can make a heart open, I might only have one match, but I can make an explosion.”

If you think Love is a complicated topic, this post is for you. I think so too. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Gotcha Sucker!

Her strategic thinking always amazes me. Don Threeto, my resident gangster and third youngest girl, has shown me that she has the long term planning skills necessary to be truly diabolical. She recently put in place a plan that took months to fully develop. Sitting here this morning I realized that a string of seemingly unrelated events were, in fact, related and very purposeful.

If you read any of my stories with “Threeto” in the title you can see how she sets the bar for military level strategy. Let’s take a stroll through the ‘unrelated events’ and reveal the truth.

She has convinced me she enjoys physical violence. She likes games like Face-Punch and How-Hard-Can-You-Punch-Me. I find her with a red eye or a bloody nose and when the other three would be squealing like baby piglets, Threeto insists that her injuries are normal and nothing happened. She has looked me dead in the eye with one eye swollen shut and said, “I feel fine. I don’t know what you are talking about.” What I learned -> She is tough.
This child licks every surface that she can get her face near. She chews on her toys. She insists on stealing her younger sister’s pacifier. Why would someone have such a disregard for germs? I mean, I have literally blocked her face from licking a toilet seat at the last second. I thought it was just habitual because she acts like a puppy a lot of the time and holds her “paws” up to her chest and licks things. This behavior is a ruse. What I learned -> She wants to be sick.
At the same time, she is attempting to keep illness from her sisters. She insists on being first to open the door, she tries to hoard all the toys (after licking them), and she steals all the pacifiers. I thought she was being very selfish but my new theory is that -> She doesn’t want her sisters to get sick.

So why would these discoveries be important?

Well, two nights ago The Don is obviously not feeling well. She isn’t running in circles in the living room or sitting up on the couch. Usually, she is standing on the back of the couch so laying on it was strange. She had a small fever and complained of a sore throat. Everyone has had trouble with fall allergies so I thought that was all she had going on. I gave her a little Mortin to help with the sore throat and as soon as her throat felt better she hit the roof and was back to her old self. I thought in the back of my mind that it might be Strep so I asked her if she though she should go to the doctor. I expected a “no” because what child wants to go to the doctor’s office? She said, “Yeah probably”. Hmmm.

We also needed some things from the store. (I go to Wal-Mart 6 out of 7 days in a week) I decided she could ride to the store with me and I could decide on the way which direction we should go. We talked about it for a minute.

“So you want to go to the doctor?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? Do you want a shot?”

“Yeah.”

“You understand what I mean right?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to go to Walmart?”

“Yeah but after the doctor.”

I wasn’t convinced. There was an unnatural desire for medical intervention and I didn’t believe her. We went to Walmart.

The next day she continued to lay around and feel less than awesome. I loaded her up and we went to the walk-in clinic. She was a chatterbox at check-in.

Great. Wasting a co-pay here. The nurse checked her temperature.

98.1. Awesome. I have been duped again.

The doctor came in and seemed to have her doubts but we did a throat swab. Threeto hates feeling out of control or overpowered, which makes total sense for an alpha criminal mastermind. She let me hold her arms while the nurse swabbed her throat and tears ran down her face but she never fought it once. I was impressed. Speechless. The test came back positive for Strep and we got a prescription for antibiotics. Then the truth was set free.

The compassionate nurse was so impressed with Threeto’s strength and resolve that she wanted to reward her. “Would you like a sucker for being so good?”

The heavens opened and a smile spread across her face. A diabolical smile that said, “My plan has succeeded! Hahahahaha!” Although, being an expert in deception, she merely smiled and said, “Yes please.” She held the sucker like an Olympic Gold Medal. She marveled in the reward of all her hard work.

Threeto is a force to be reckoned with. She knew that in a household of crying and estrogen fueled complaining, she would need to stand out as tough so when she was sick we would notice. Then she knew she had to get sick if she had any hope of reaching her sucker and sticker utopia. We are forever telling the kids not to lick things because of germs so she deduced that getting sick required licking. Then she ensured her victory by keeping the illness from the other sisters. If one of them went to the doctor first then she may not get rewarded for her hard work.

I think we may negotiate a deal on suckers and stickers. Regular payments for protecting herself from sickness. The Godfather made his start providing protection to people in exchange for payments. She has taken it to the extreme by blackmailing me using her own health. She may be the most powerful leader in history.

The Gandhi of gangster.

If you are outsmarted, this post is for you. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.