Daddy’s Song! or Is it morning al -f-ing-ready?

I won’t let anyone watch TV during dinner.  I’m not sure where I learned it because my family always leaves the TV on, even when they are eating in the dining room and have no visual access to the TV.  But because I find it a little weird to eat in silence (My husband often comes home after dinner, and the boys aren’t great dining conversationalist yet; other than “I don’t like it!  Can I go now? Can I have cookies?” or “Peeeease!  Juice!”), I have started playing my iPod during dinner.  It only took a month before I decided I couldn’t endure another meal with kiddie music, so now we play a shuffle now.


Last night as we ate “One Week” by the Barenaked Ladies came on the iPod, and Evan straightened up in his seat.


Evan: That’s Daddy’s song!  It plays on the radio in Mommy and Daddy’s room!  Then Daddy shuts it off in the dark and goes back to sleep!  Ah-shoo.  Ah-shoo.  Ah-shoo.  Then he starts making daddy noises!  That’s what daddies do!


Shall I explain?  We own a CD alarm, and every morning “One Week” plays to wake us up.  It is actually “Mommy’s song” because Mommy CANNOT stand that stupid, irritating beeping sound that just makes me want to walk into the office of the jerk who thought that was a great noise to wake up to and beat him to death with a mallet.  My husband does not care as he’s a snoozer, and I find that terribly annoying too.  It is only due to my inability to spring into action for anything, but a child’s cry, in the morning that has kept my husband alive for so many years.  As for “One Week,” it is the only song that we could agree on.  He would rather wake up to AC/DC, and I have always preferred Hole as a morning wake up call. 


As for daddy noises, my husband snores . . . LOUDLY.  As in hibernating bear loudly.  As in the neighbors who live two houses down can hear it loudly.  As in a dozen chainsaws running loudly.  As in a six on the Richter scale loudly.  Luckily I am a heavy sleep, except during pregnancy, which might explain why we spend nearly nine months arguing on why we’re still married and crazy enough to have a child.


How does Evan know this?  God, with his infinite wisdom and sense of humor, gave two night owls two early birds.  So when Evan wakes at say 5:30, I allow him to A) snuggle with Mommy and Daddy or B) turn on the TV in Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom and watch cartoons.  The alarm goes off at 6:15, then at 6:25, and, and if I hadn’t kicked my husband out of bed yet, 6:35.


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Husband, Wife, Penis Blogs

Me: My blog is doing really well right now.  People really like the penis stories.


Husband: I don’t know.


Me: What?


Husband: “They only think about their penises.”  That’s really controversial.  You’re going to make people mad.


Me: What?  (What you actually read my blog?  What you actually think that was controversial?  What you’re upset because I think men think with their penises?)


Husband: Yeah, you’re talking about your boys there.  It’s not right.


Me: First off, it was a joke.  Sarcasm.  Second, these are boys; you all DO think about your penises all the time.  Third, the people who read these are moms who have been or are going through with it; THEY know it’s a joke.


Husband: It’s just not right.  You probably offended people.


Me: (After a long pause wondering if offended my blog friends, then realizing you would totally call me out if I did.)  Honestly, you’re quite touchy about this.  It’s just a stupid generalization.  We all know SOMETHING has to be going on in your heads than just your penises or else you would never eat.


Husband: I think about other things.


Me: (roll of eyes) Obviously.  But this is just like my theory on human relations.  Men are stupid.  Women are evil.


Husband: I’m not stupid.


Me: (sigh) Do you remember when you thought that was actually funny?  When we were dating?  Or maybe you were just a little drunk?  Women learn in middle school how to be manipulative, and men learn to fight.  A man will kick your ass, but a woman will destroy your life.  All women have potential evil lurking in their soul.  All men are potentially rendered stupid under women.


Husband: I’m not stupid.


Me: Remember M?  How she would hang on you to make her boyfriend jealous and me pissed off, ready to kick her ass, but you never noticed?  Or how about the time she told her boyfriend you hit on her and he called you wanting to fight and you said dude, I’m MARRIED and I would NEVER do that to you if I were single?  Or how about J that TOTALLY convinced her boyfriend she wanted a kid and now will NEVER do it?  Those women did EVIL things that men would never EVER think of and were completely blind to.


Husband: Good point.  But I’m not stupid.


Me: (Sigh.  New tactic) Fine, you’re not stupid and you don’t always think about your penis.  By the way, did you read the one about the bookworms?


Husband: No.


Me: How about the one about the second child?


Husband: No.


Me: So which ones did you read?


Husband: The penis ones.  They’re always the funniest.


Me: Ah.



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Breaking a Promise On The Hell With All That

Ok.  Ok.  (I’m not sure if Tornado E got that from me; or I from him.)  I’m in the middle of reading The Hell with All That: Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewives by Caitlin Flanagan.  I have realized I will probably have to hunt down and read most of the books that she quotes from, which might not be too bad, due to some sound interesting.  I promised you all that I would write when I’m done, but I HAVE to get this off my chest.  Really, I might be able to raise a flag and get some support here.


I just finish reading “The Wifely Duty,” this is the point where I actually flip the bird at the book.  I was with Flanagan during the preface as she mourns the death of her mother, who will not be immortalized in the way her writer of a father will be with an archive in a college somewhere.  I understood the heartache and the fear of not being remembered, but I believe the lessons of motherhood and fatherhood are passed down through the heart and memories.  (I follow my great-grandmother’s advice, though I never met her, because her daughter and granddaughters followed and taught it.)  In “The Virgin Bride,” I agreed with Flanagan that the wedding industry is CRAZY, and all you have to do is watch one episode of Bridezilla to know that.  But I think this phenomom is due to sauve marketing and advertising of the bridal industry feeding off of the greed and selfishness in modern American culture versus that feminism fatally wounded the white wedding as it was known.  (More on these subjects later)  But to say that it is MY duty, and my duty alone, to keep the passion alive in my marriage, is enough for me to want to burn the book and be thankful that I bought it second hand so that there is no record of me reading it.  Wait, I guess I screwed that up when I decided to write about the book on this blog.


Like many young wives and mothers, I work my ass off, just like many young husbands and fathers work their asses off.  I have even actually had this discussion with a marriage counselor who said that many couples in their twenties and early thirties have a diminished sex life.  The counselor maintained this was due to the hard work and stress both partners were dealing with.  Those years are crucial to people who are building their careers, and these are also the years that there are small children in the house, who are taking up a lot of time and energy.  Once the working partner(s) make some head way in their career and the children start doing things for themselves, the couple reinitiates their sex life.


To say that it is the wife’s duty to make the husband satisfied is insulting.  It takes two.  Without going too much into my own marriage (just in case my husband does read it, because you know he will now that I wrote about him), let’s just say he wants it on the days that there was no sleep the night before, teething, fighting, pressing buttons, peeing, vomiting, and of course chores.  It never fails that the day he comes home from a stressful day to fall asleep on the couch to the noise of Finding Nemo and couch sliding is the day I’ve been wistfully fantasizing about when the boys go to bed and it’s the two of us.  If I remember my human biology right or even the sex course, I believe it takes two people.  I have a hard time believing that all those sexless marriages are due to a working mother’s resistance to her husband not cleaning up after the kids, which is just as comical as Greek actors running around the stage with paper maché penises agreeing to peace.  Hell, if that’s all it took to get world peace, much less a husband to remember that you have to wash children’s hands and faces after ice cream, women would be refraining from sex all the time.  The fact is that is doesn’t work, and in the end, women just have too much to do than to add wear sex lingerie as you cook dinner so you can give your husband a BJ the moment you finished putting the children to bed.


Really, who wants chore sex?


The fact of the matter is that if the husband and wife help each other out, they will be more willing to jump enthusiastically in bed because they will have the energy.  While my husband wistfully remembers the time before the boys, he has to think even further back to a time before he was building a company from the ground up.  And I will look forward to the time I can drop the boys off at my mom’s.