It’s so early on a Saturday morning, but the Comedy Gods have already struck gold.
Seven-year-old Julianna: Daddy, can I go to www-dot-bubblebutts-dot-com?
Me: Excuse me? Where?
J: Oh, I mean BOBBLEBOTS-dot-com. They’re toys. Part of the Moshi Monsters cartoon.
Me: Ok. Because I’ve been cruising the Internet long enough to know that “bubblebutts” is an entirely different class of bubble than you might expect.
I didn’t know which direction to go with tonight’s post, so I thought I’d throw a few ideas at you and let you vote.
Here’s the setup:
Tonight was seven-year-old Julianna’s very first School Dance.
Here’s where you come in. Choose your favorite quip…
I immediately headed to the darkest corner of the auditorium where I found myself on so many occasions when I was a kid, hating all the cool kids. I heard a voice behind me.
“Hello, old friend,” said the wall. “Welcome home.”
Five-year-old Isabella was the prettiest school dance partner I’ve had since Patty Thomas in the 7th grade. But as you probably know, I like girls with long, curly brown hair.
KC Sunshine called. He specifically asked me to stop shake-shake-shaking my booty or pay a hefty fine. “It’s supposed to be a dance floor, man,” he said. “You’re turning it into a Crime Scene.”
I couldn’t get up the courage to ask anyone to dance. My mother tells me that I’m just a little socially awkward, and that it is a “phase” which I will grow out of. Some day, she promises, I’ll start “making friends.”
I guess it’s true that you’ll always be a kid to your parents. Which gives me a great excuse to not clean up my room. Do you think the wife will buy it?
Everything was going well until a Conga Line broke out. It unfortunately turned on itself, causing a 40-kid pile-up. Traffic was backed up for 50 feet.
Vote early. Vote often…
From today’s Epic hour-long meltdown by a five-year-old… Further evidence that this whole parenting thing is turning me into a chick…
A Parent’s Credo (by me):
I will hold you when you cry.
I will sing to you when you scream.
I will whisper to you when you yell.
I will reason with you when you are irrational.
I will kiss you when you kick.
I will protect you when you are a danger.
I will hug you when you hit.
And, I will Love you when you Hate me.
Then, I will go to bed and cry.
I will pay for your college education.
I will stomach your boyfriend.
I will stomach your girlfriend.
I will celebrate your graduation.
I will finance your apartment.
I will help you “find yourself.”
I will indulge your tattoos.
I will call the mechanic.
I will get you on your feet.
I will respect your decisions.
I will help you become the woman you were meant to be.
I will be your father.
Then, I will go to bed and cry.
Going through Julianna’s DVR recordings tonight:
J: Oooh, Daddy. I want to see the one with the Hot Princess.
Me: Seriously. “Hot” Princess? You know that a Princess can be “Hot?” Where do you get this stuff? You’ve been watching way too much TV. And I know that I contribute to this by working in an industry which promulgates body-image stereotypes on girls and young women which are totally unrealistic and warp their sense of beauty and self-worth? God, I’m horrible.
J: No, Dad… I meant she’s actually “hot.” She’s the FIRE Princess. From “Adventure Time.”
Me: Oh. From “Adventure Time.” You mean the show that has won numerous Emmy and Annie Awards? And is considered one of the best of the current generation’s animated series?
J: I guess. I don’t know. I’m only seven.
Me: Ok, then… Never mind. (As Emily Litella would say… Google it, if you must.)
Yeah, sue me. I embellished that one a bit. (But it all flashed through my mind in an instant.)
Isabella (five-years-old): Daddy, girls can have babies, but boys can’t.
Me: Well, uh, yes, Honey, That’s right.
Iz: Because boys have something between their legs to stop the baby from coming out. What is that thing?
Me: Well, Honey, you’re right. Boys and girls have different bodies. You see…
Iz: Did you know that sometimes the moon is big and sometimes it is small? Why is that? And, where do the stars go during the day.
Me: (Whew… Not yet…)
Watching Entertainment Tonight’s Spring Break coverage:
Julianna (seven-years-old): Daddy, what’s a Brazillian Wax?
Me: Um, Uh… A what? Oh, there’s a big statue of Jesus in Brazil for Mardi Gras… I think it’s a special Jesus wax candle for kids.
Julianna: Ok. A Brazillian Wax! I can’t wait to get one!
God, I’m a horrible father.
A Most Romantic Evening:
Mommy and Daddy on the eve of Mommy’s birthday: In the hot tub, with the bubbles, under the stars, looking at old Christmas lights dancing around.
A Lesser Romantic Evening:
Same Mommy and Daddy. Same stars. Same hot tub. Same Christmas lights. Now add one child (“Hahaha, I’m making my own bubbles”), then the second child (“Look at the rat on the power line!”)
This is not going according to plan.
But, I’d still marry her. Even after meeting her family.
Cuddling with seven-year-old Julianna as she drifted off to sleep last night:
J: Daddy, sing me a song.
Me (singing): Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star…
J: No, something else.
Me: Ok… “You are my sunshine. My only…”
J: No, stop… Maybe NOT singing is better than singing.
Me: Ouch. Was “American Idol” on tonight?
J (mumbling and drifting off…): Yes……Song choice…
(And admittedly, I was a little “pitchy,” whatever the hell that is.)
Facing off against five-year-old Isabella… (And captured on video for those doubters):
Me: Do you want gnocchi for dinner?
Iz: No! Waaaaaaahhh!
Me: No?… Really?
Iz: Yes, because then you’ll know what I want!
Me: Hmm, So… You want gnocchi. But, No, you don’t want me to know that you want gnocchi.
Iz: Noooooo! Wahhhh! Yes! I don’t want gnocchi! But I do! I do want it! Waaaahhhhhh!
Me: You want it, but you won’t tell me you want it… What if I put the gnocchi in the fridge for later?
Iz: If I can have it tomorrow? Ok! As long as I can have it now and you don’t know about tomorrow.
That’s the last ten minutes of my life. Funny “ha ha” for you. Not so much for me. And, the night is still so young.
Isabella on the phone talking to Grandma:
Daddy (to Isabella): Good Lord, you’ve been on the phone for an hour! Grandma must be exhausted.
Mommy (to Daddy): Leave her alone… It’s Free Babysitting.
Daddy: Good point… So… how late does Other Grandma stay up?