Fathers, Daughters, & Disco Sticks

Today's guest blogger is Ted Ten Eyck. He's extraordinarily funny, even more so when you meet him in person. If you enjoy his wry humor you'll love his take on therapy, as well as his feelings about picking zits. Don't read the zit one if you're eating. 

When my wife finished watching the coverage of the recent royal wedding, she confessed the following to me:  “I’m glad you’re not a prince, because I don’t think I would make for a very good princess.” Having learned a thing or two over the past twelve years of marriage, I knew I had to respond carefully:  “Don’t be silly. Of course you would be a good princess.” My wife appreciated my lame attempt to sound supportive. But she went on to explain why she felt she would be a less-than-exemplary princess:  “I probably would have just flipped off all of those spectators at my wedding.” Oh. Well in that case, you definitely are not good princess material.  

My wife can breathe a sigh of relief because I certainly am not prince-like material. Luckily, I don’t want to be a prince. Hell, I don’t even want to be Prince. (But that is mainly because he is a full sixteen inches shorter than I.) Even though my wife knows she wouldn’t be a good princess, I am sure that doesn’t stop her from still having a desire to be a princess. Because, as far as I am aware, most people born with lady-parts have some yearning at some time in their life to be a princess. (Don’t worry; I make sweeping, stereotypical comments about men later on.) This desire is reinforced with weddings and proms and, as I discovered last year, the beloved Father-Daughter dance.  

My understanding is that the dance has its origin in basically forcing fathers to spend time together with their precious daughters. Fatherhood was very different “back in the day.” It was, after all, a time when it was socially acceptable for the likes of Don Draper to get drunk at a bar while his wife was in labor. An awful lot has changed regarding the role of fathers since then. Today, for example, men are expected to not only be (1) present and (2) sober for the birth of their child, but to also (3) pretend that their wife did not just have a bowel movement on the birthing table while awaiting Junior’s arrival into the world. Yet despite all of these changes, year after year, the Father-Daughter dance keeps on happening.  

And this is a really special night for the girls. The girls are typically wearing a new dress...and new shoes...and new jewelry. Some go to the hair salon on the day of the big event; some go for a manicure and pedicure. They get flowers from their father. And the girls are absolutely beautiful. They look like little princesses. 

Unfortunately, these little princesses don’t have a proper audience who can fully appreciate just how beautiful they look. I paid close attention this year, and discovered that the girls themselves really don’t care what one another look like. As long as they tamed their bed-head and are not still wearing the same Justin Bieber t-shirt they had on at school earlier that day, all is apparently good. And the only other people in attendance at the Father-Daughter dance are, appropriately enough, fathers. The fathers will make a big deal about their daughter’s appearance. They will even throw in a perfunctory, “You look beautiful!” However, all fathers really care about is making sure their daughter is never, ever wearing sweatpants that proudly proclaim “JUICY” across the ass.  

So, the only people who will truly appreciate all of these efforts are the only people who will not actually be attending the dance. Yes—the mothers. The same ones who bought the dress and the shoes and dealt with their daughter’s tears because the hair stylist made her hair too curly. So the mothers latch onto what they can; namely, posting the pictures on Facebook for all of the other mothers to appreciate.    

Despite the fact that my wife was already sharing her photos with all 252 of her Facebook friends before my daughter and I even entered the event, we still got suckered into paying for the professional pictures at the dance. And then we had to walk past the refreshment table, and another table where they were selling glow sticks. (I refused to buy one just on principle; I don’t need to give my daughter practice for what she might experience when she finally gets to go to her first rave.) Then it is finally time to enter the ballroom (a.k.a. high school cafeteria) where the magic happens. And I have learned from experience that the night will only play out one of two ways:   the first scenario happened to me last year, where my then six-year-old daughter clung to me the entire night because she was overwhelmed and over stimulated with the chaos of the event. The second option is what happened this year:  we walked in and my precious offspring dropped me like a hot potato. “Dad, I’m gonna go dance with my friends!” Fine by me. At the age of 41, I am pretty sure that I have more than met my lifetime quota of having to dance to “Y.M.C.A.”

That means that I am then on my own to mingle with the other fathers who were also ditched by their dates. So what is created as a result is a cafeteria full of men left to make small talk with other men. And everyone knows that striking-up conversation is not a strong point of people born with dangly-parts. That is why men prefer to get together with a planned activity in mind to give them something to talk about; activities such as playing poker or watching a stripper. So, if the organizers of the Father-Daughter dance really wanted to raise some serious money for the school, they would do more than just sell soda and candy bars; they should offer a full cash bar. Not only would the alcohol provide the much-needed social lubrication, but the sales would bring in enough money for the school to most likely build a new wing. (I can hear it now:  “Today’s assembly on scoliosis will be held in the Anheiser-Busch Multi-Purpose Room.”)

Although I have been tempted to bring my own flask to the dance, I have so far used my better judgment. So I have to resort to using my patented conversation starters that are specific to the Father-Daughter dance. Let me give you a few examples:  

“Hey, Bob? Doesn’t it seem odd that the kindergarteners are all dancing to Katy Perry going on and on about losing one’s virginity?”  

 “Am I the only one here who finds it creepy that our seven-year-old daughters are chanting ‘Boys wanna touch my junk’ along with Ke$ha?”

“Good to see you. Nothing like Lady Gaga proclaiming that she ‘wants to take a ride on your disco stick’ to build lasting memories for girls and their dads, eh?”

I really, really wish I was joking about these particular songs being played at the dance. But believe you me, these are the selections. Luckily, the songs that are played for the slow dances are surprisingly free of sexual innuendos. So, I have nothing to carp about regarding what we are dancing to; I do, however, have some things to say about how the dancing actually happens. Some pairings opt for the isn’t-that-cute daughter-standing-on-Dad’s-shoes move. Let me tell you from experience that that is enjoyable for the fathers for approximately seven seconds. Then there is the traditional option where even though the two dancing parties are holding hands, there is enough distance between said parties as to not catch cooties. (I wish that this image did not conjure up for me so many memories of dancing this way with uninterested partners during junior-high mixers while Journey’s “Open Arms” played in the background.)

If I had been cooler in middle-school (or in high school, or in college...), I would have had the chance to dance really close with a girl, with our bodies pressed up against one another and the girl’s head resting on my shoulder. Surprisingly, this is the move that many Father-Daughter pairings resort to. Unfortunately, because of the massive height difference between most adult males and their elementary-school-aged daughters, the girl’s head inevitably ends up resting on her father’s lower abdomen. And that is a sight that you will never see, rightfully so, in any of those Disney princess movies.  

So, I can bitch and moan all that I want, but it doesn’t matter. And that is because the Father-Daughter dance is not about me. It’s about my daughter, the princess. And my princess has a magical time at said event, because she feels special on that night. And hopefully later in her life she will find someone who can make her feel that special each and every day. In the meantime, she is stuck with me, her father, who is still closest at being prince-like only when I play the soundtrack to “Purple Rain” on the drive home from the Father-Daughter dance.  

The Usual Run of Things. Shocking, I know.

Todays' Guest Post is from Tara over at Two Hands and a Roadmap. I'm pretty sure that we are twins, separated at birth and raised in two different cities. If you like my humor, you'll love Tara, because she swears and has mediocre goals just like me. Plus she preserves tomatoes and cans fresh peaches. Another reason to love her! I'm guest posting over on her blog today, in case you want to take a read. Enjoy!



I should be offended by this. I should rail against gender stereotypes in general and the use of "Mr. Mom" to refer to a man who nurtures children and keeps house in particular. I should, at the very least, be disdainful of the country twang and cliches.

But I'm not. I enjoy this song. It makes me happy to know there's someone out there as bad at the stay-at-home thing as I was. With a procrastinating nature, a fundamental inability to stay organized, and a phobia of the telephone, I wasn't exactly a natural. Plus multi-tasking is physically painful to me. Make dinner while entertaining toddler? No way, no how; I could do one or the other, period. It all added up to a hot mess of crayon-marked walls and smoke detectors announcing that dinner was done.

Now that both kids are in school full-time  and I'm away at work -- leaving my husband in charge of a lot of morning household tasks -- you would think I have limited opportunities to screw stuff up. Yet I manage, over and over.

A classic bonehead maneuver involved an elementary school Christmas party that I volunteered to organize for my younger son. His teacher gave me a list of names and numbers of people who had signed up at the beginning of the year to bring stuff to the party. My job was to call them (uh-oh), and organize all the dishes coming in from different parents (holy crap). Oh, and not to lose the list. Teacher chuckled as she handed it to me; it seems the parent who volunteered to run the Halloween party LOST THE LIST and the whole party had to be run in a most unacceptable way. How ridiculous. We're not letting her do that again. Ha ha, freaking ha.

The smart readers just figured out where this is going.

I shoved the paper, cleverly stapled to thick purple construction paper to make it unlosable (um, ha?) in my van and forgot about it. Plenty of time.

Two weeks later and a mere three days before the event, I decided I'd better remind the people who signed up (in September, remember) to bring stuff. I knew I'd have to apologize for being so scatterbrained and late, but it would be OK.


The paper was gone. Gone. While I sorted various piles of paper in my kitchen and office, I imagined the humiliation of calling the teacher and telling her that another mother has lost a party signup sheet. I saw my picture up in the teachers' lounge, with blacked-out teeth and surrounded by epithets scrawled in Sharpie markers. When I had to move my paperback copy of ADD-Friendly Ways to Organize Your Life to continue searching, I had a private laugh. It sounded like the giggle of a madman.

I finally found the paper. It was on the floor of my van. There were no staples. No thick, purple construction paper. It was a regular printout, on green printer paper. I picked it up and marveled at my ineptitude. There wasn't much time, though, to figure why I had mentally manufactured such a strange and erroneous detail. I made calls; I made apologies; I made recommendations for party contributions. I did not lose the list. My mind is another matter altogether.

So if you need me, I'll be the one folding laundry and laughing like Renfield. It's the only multitasking I can manage.

Picking Battles

I decided to break my almost-two-month silence here with a guest post from Ted. After reading this you'll be laughing too hard to be mad at me for my ridiculously long hiatus. When you're finished, leave a comment letting us know if you are or aren't one. I can tell you right now, I'm a card carrying member of this club, right along with Ted's wife. 

Shortly after graduating from college, my friends and I were nursing our hangovers in the front yard of my parents’ house. While we were busily recounting the antics of the previous evening, my father pulled up in his freshly washed and vacuumed Mercury Marquis and immediately asked me in front of my friends:  “What happened to the lawn?”

 “I mowed it.” I replied. “Doesn’t it look good?” Even if I didn’t have wet-brain, I should have known that there was 0% chance my father would have answered in the affirmative.  

No, he did not think the lawn looked good. Perhaps that was because one of the wheels on the mower was apparently at a different setting than the other three while I mowed the entire lawn. As a result, each strip of the lawn was cut at an ever-so-slight angle that only the most obsessive of obsessive lawn owners would ever notice. Unfortunately for me, my father just happens to be one of these individuals. Not believing him initially, my father then requested that I join him on all fours so that we could both gain a better view of my horticultural faux pas. Please keep in mind that my friends were present for this entire exchange. Luckily, my recently-earned undergraduate degree was in neither landscape architecture or pride.

I do not bring up this story just so I can poke fun at my father’s anal-retentive lawn care tendencies. (But if that were indeed my intention, I would inevitably use that as the lead-in to the story of my father standing on the roof of our two-story house using the electric leaf blower to rid the roof of all debris. I am pretty sure he must have had to plug two extension cords together to be able to gingerly operate the equipment that far removed from anything resembling an electrical outlet.) Rather, I bring up this anecdote to illustrate how some people have an amazing ability to see things that most other (read: normal) people are completely oblivious to. With that, I resort to the analogy section of the SAT’s to drive home my main point:  

Lawn imperfections are to my father as pimples are to my wife.  

Just as I would most likely not have noticed if my father’s lawn mower’s blade was temporarily replaced with two plastic knives lifted from Dairy Queen, I am not someone who really pays attention to pimples, either mine or those of others. Yes, I will pop my own pimples; I consider it to be good hygiene, just like making sure I don’t have any stray nose hairs or kale stuck in my teeth. However, I don’t get enjoyment out of any of these acts. They are just things I do if I want to have people willingly interact with me.  

This is all very different for my wife. (Let’s call her Pam, which seems pretty appropriate considering that is indeed her name) For Pam, the act of picking satisfies a burning need that one usually only sees when watching a tweeker light up on an episode of “Intervention.” And without the aide of rehab or twelve step programs, Pam has learned how to effectively manage most of her impulses to pick. Impressive, eh?

Pam is not alone in this obsession; by my unofficial count, approximately half of all Americans are “pickers.” My non-scientific studies have further concluded that there is absolutely no grey area between the two camps; either you’re a picker or you aren’t. That’s it. Just as you either love the show “Glee” or you despise it. (I am in the latter camp. So for those of you keeping track, that makes me a “Glee”-hating-non-picker.) And my doctoral thesis in the psychology of picking concluded that although it is satisfying for a picker to pick something on their own body, it is that much more satisfying to pick something on someone else’s body. And whose body is better to pick (and more socially appropriate) than your spouse’s.  

If Pam were actually a junkie and in need of a fix, I would do what all good enabling spouses do, which is pawn the baby’s crib and score her some dope. Done and done. If only my life were that easy. Unfortunately for me, my wife is not hooked on crack or meth; her vice is white-heads. And on those occasions where she gives in to her temptations, I can’t just go out and score Pam something to pick; rather, I have to organically grow something that will satisfy her burning need. And considering that I am six foot six, there is a pretty good potential at any given moment that there is something somewhere on my body that is in need of picking. (I now question if she married me because I am truly her soul-mate or because I provide more surface area than all of her other prospective suitors.)

But here’s the kicker: I am not a fan of her picking my pimples. I enjoy her picking at my skin about as much as I enjoy her picking on my character flaws. After twelve years of marriage, Pam is now usually able to overlook most of my numerous shortcomings as a husband. However, she has a more difficult time attempting to overlook the tiniest of pimples growing on my forehead. And I know the moment when she spots something new on my skin. She tries to be really discreet about it. But I know her all too well. And I know what I am in for when I see her gaze shift ever-so-slightly from my piercing hazel eyes to my forehead. That is when my own version of homeland-security-against-unwanted-picking escalates to the dreaded “code red” level. 

“Stop it.”

“What???”

“You know what you’re doing. Stop it.”

“But I’m not doing anything.”

Both Pam and I know to what I am referring, and we both know that she is trying not to be obvious in her quest to pinpoint the black head she just spotted on my skin. She is like a four year old with her mouth covered in chocolate desperately trying to convince me that she didn’t sneak a piece of left-over Halloween candy. But she will eventually confess to seeing something. And then I can see her having an internal debate as to whether or not she should proceed by asking if she can pick away.  

She inevitably has a far more difficult time gaining my permission to pick when the pimple is on my back. Mainly because it’s on my back, and I know that nobody is ever going to see it. Hell, Pam doesn’t even see my back. And if she knows that there is something on my back to pick, that means that she discovered it when we were enjoying a little “adult time” together. What usually happens is she will be gingerly stroking my back, and then she will pause ever so slightly. And I know that that means that she felt something. “Pam, stop it!” And once again, she knows exactly what I’m talking about. 

At times, Pam will ask me to pop something for her, and that is only because she is not able to reach said offender. I then attempt to muster up a modicum of enthusiasm for the task. This amount is equivalent to how much I would have if someone asked me to be a groomsman in their Star-Trek themed wedding party. I fumble around for a minute, pretending like I’m doing something substantial. But I’m not. And she knows it. She eventually walks away with her original not-popped pimple, and although she won’t admit, I know that she is judging me. Harshly. Judging me the way she did (rightfully so) when I flailed my arms and screeched like a little girl when the vacuum that I was using caught on fire.  

There was actually one time when I went at one of her pimples with genuine vigor and vim. I knew this would be my chance to prove to her that I was a man of honor, and not just a man who was incapable of thinking on my own to unplug a smoking vacuum. I discovered the pimple in the middle of the night. I rolled over, put my hand on Pam’s back, and felt something. Something big. Something big enough that it woke me from my sleep. So I poked and prodded over and over, trying to fully wrap my mind around this crazy growth on her back. And then Pam, herself half asleep, barked:  “Ow!  What are you doing to my nipple???”

Life Lesson Cont’d

This past weekend was one of the few weekends in November (or December) that didn’t have tiny writing in the calendar boxes, meaning my husband and I had two full days to do what we damn well pleased. You know, yard work, chores, laundry, and grocery shopping were able to be completed totally unencumbered by sports games, karate, sleepovers, or birthday parties. Which turned out to be a really good thing since the vast amount of our energy, patience, and emotions were sucked dry simply by trying to deal with our son, who has officially morphed into a sad-morose-glass-always-empty-pre-teen.

Since his birth we knew it was coming.

For those who need to catch up a little bit, I guest blogged on the website Good Enough Mother yesterday, about our son’s impending report card status and what is going to happen when he brings home any grade below a “B.” Which I’m praying will happen because if he manages to eeeekkkk his way into all “Bs” it means one thing: that he’ll never change. He’ll think he can half-ass his way right into college with the same amount of effort he gives to picking up his room and folding his clothes into tight, neat piles. I’m sure you can imagine what that looks like.

Last week he mistakenly thought report cards would come home on Friday, but no, it’s actually Monday. Which meant of course, he had one more weekend of video games, TV, and computer, or to be more precise, three more days to breathe easily before he started flopping around, gasping for air like a fish out of water because he has lost technology. Which he tried to work to his advantage.

Every request this past weekend started with: “Since I’m going to lose video games next week, can I…” or “This is the last weekend I have to watch TV, so can I…” which we went ahead and let him do. We’re not as cruel as he makes us sound. We’re happy to give the kid on death-row a few tasty meals of his choosing. He stayed up late Friday night watching a movie. He spent the night at a friend’s house on Saturday, his last tribute to Halo and bonding with his buddy. Sunday morning came, and he was a tired, moody, mess, and angry I called him home from his sleep over so he could attend Sunday morning mass. Apparently the I-need-to-be-thankful-perspective is a few years off.

Sunday was choppy for us all, and I asked him, “Do you have any homework you need to complete today?” He wasn’t sure. He thought he might have a little.

“Don’t you have quite a few tests coming up this week?” I ask. Maybe he does. He thinks so. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the study guides he needs to study effectively. Besides, he tells me, he can always study Monday night.

At which point I send him off to his room to bring me his backpack and folder, while I walked to the nearest wall and banged my head against it a couple times in a repetitive why me motion. Dealing with my son and his homework habits is a little like picking up a drunk relative from the police station after being arrested for a DUI, only to have that relative ask you to stop at the liquor store on the way home so he can buy more beer. And I’m thinking in alcoholic metaphors these days because dealing with a pre-teen has increased my desire to throw a few back. At the end of this year there’s a good chance I’ll have sclerosis of the liver.

My son brings me his backpack, and I proceed to rifle through it just to make sure he was indeed telling me the truth. That he had no homework. That he was all caught up, almost. That the life lesson he was currently swimming through had pushed his little head out of the water long enough for him to gain perspective of the shore. Surely, SURELY, someone who was going to lose four and a half weeks of technology (anything with a cord for heaven’s sake) would MAKE SURE their assignments were completed, wouldn’t they? Faced with the thought of being holed up in our house with only his books and model rockets to keep him company, wouldn’t that encourage him to make SURE he started the new grading period off with completed assignments and good grades?

Do you see where this is going?

I found the weekly letter in his backpack. The one I’m supposed to read on Thursday when it comes home and not on Sunday, three days later. But I’m mediocre and didn’t ask him for his folder on Thursday—or all weekend for that matter—because I decided to be selfish and organize my daughter’s closet and wash the outside of the windows with the 10-foot stepladder.

In this little note home, I discover that my son has a one and a half page essay due on Monday. That he has a graphic organizer “to help with the assignment” and to “please ask your child about this.” So, per teacher’s instructions I say, “Son? What is this about an essay due tomorrow?”

“A what?” he asks. “An essay?”

“Yes,” I reply. “An essay. And you have some type of graphic organizer to help you? Where is that?”

“An essay?” he keeps repeating, like I’m suddenly speaking in tongues and he can’t quite make out what I mean, but maybe if he looks all confused and mopey it will buy him some time to come up with another feeble excuse. He rifles through his backpack and drags out a piece of crumpled paper, a notebook with about seven sentences written down, and he says to me, “You mean, my personal narrative?”

At which point I grabbed the edges of my stained couch and prayed, Lord, please help me not kill my son who is deciding to take this moment to dicker with me over the semantics of his assignment. Is he seriously getting into a pissing contest with me over lexicon? Jesus, hold me back.

“Yes.” I reply, sociopathically. “Your personal narrative. When is it due?”

“I don’t know,” he tells me.

“It says here it is due tomorrow. How much do you have written?”

He holds up his notebook and shows me his 1/8 of a page of chicken scratch and I reply, “Well. Looks like you have a busy day.”

The best part of this emotion-suck-lesson however, was when our son’s best friends pulled into the driveway in their van, hoping to take our son back to their house to hang out and have dinner. His rant suddenly stopped, his smile returned, and he looked at me with hopeful, doe-y eyes. Surely, not even I would say no to this outing! There they were in our driveway, just waiting for him, and it would be rude to say no! But I declined on behalf of my son, thanked them for being salt in his wound, and sent them on their way. Our boy needed to finish his essay. And while it would have been so much easier to let him go play—while the thought of not having to deal with his passive-aggressive harumpfs and deep sighs would have made my day easier, I thought about that cold beer in the fridge, and I held my ground.

He managed to finish writing his assignment, and his father and I forced him to type it up, even though he swore up and down that only the rough draft was due Monday and not the final draft. He was worried he’d get in trouble by completing so much of it ahead of time. I assured him, I would be happy to write a note apologizing to his teacher that he went above and beyond and that his father and I forced him to do it. Blame us for having expectations for our son’s behavior, we can take it. He’s just our minion.

Incredibly, he eeeekkkkked out his assignment at the eleventh hour once again. It took about that long too. There was a lot of crying and nose blowing and used tissue on the floor. And although he told me he was “finished” about five times (each time asking if he could now go be with his friends),we kindly pointed out the other things he needed to complete: picking up his room, studying for his test, working on his math, and doing a final proofing and edit of his essay. Excuse me, personal narrative.

He’s my first child, my only son, and I had no brother’s growing up. I get that I’m new to this adolescent game, especially when it comes to dealing with boys. I naively thought the report card status would be enough to change his behavior in one swift motion. Looks like it’s going to be more of a year-long process. Me, my husband, and my bottle of Merlot are ready for the challenge.

Peaks and Potholes: Being 40 with a Sexual Catch-22

I recently celebrated my 40th birthday. I was not worried about turning the big 4-0 as I have never really been that concerned about my age. Through the years I have not been overly anxious about my changing face (what are a few wrinkles?), my sagging skin (so I am not as firm as I used to be), my grey hair (that’s what a salon is for), or my post baby body (which is a whole other blog all together). I am young at heart, still love to have fun and I basically feel like I am in my twenties. I can manage the slight aches (that is what Motrin is for) and the rising blood pressure (fine, I will exercise more), and the increase in doctors appointments for myself (seriously, a mammogram EVERY year?). Overall I am thinking this aging thing is not so bad.

I have been married to Ted for almost 12 years (which is probably encouraging my rising blood pressure). We have 4 children, 8 pets, 2 full time jobs and a house that is never clean enough. We have our struggles and certainly our bad moments, but we are lucky to be a couple who truly like and enjoy each other’s company. Don’t get me wrong, there are many days I would happily throw him off the roof, but still, he is my favorite person on earth. Among this crazy life we have traversed the ups and downs of an intimate relationship, but generally our life between the sheets has been satisfying for both of us, every time (a little shout out of appreciation there to my darling husband for all his efforts). I was cruising happily along through the years (okay, mostly happy), with my husband, my family, my friends, and my house. Unfortunately my hormones had other plans, big plans, just for me. 

As I approached and have now reached my 4th decade of life I have finally hit my sexual peak. What used to take my body half an hour to achieve between the sheets is easily achieved in mere minutes (if that) and is generally more intense and pleasurable. I even have a full appreciation for that elusive myth of “multiple” achievements at one time (maybe there is a GOD). I have heard it before: men peak in their early 20’s and for women it’s a bit later. For me it was the second trimester of each of my pregnancies (thank you hormones!) and around 38 1/2 years old. Finally, something to REALLY appreciate as I age. 

Everything was bumping along smoothly until my hormones drove me straight into a pothole in October of 2009, when I actually hit the big 4-0. Literally in a weekend I changed from being a sex goddess of happiness (my husband is rolling his eyes now, but I can dream) to a raving bitch on a roller coaster of moodiness, cramping and all out grouchiness. The hormones of my 40-year old body are strikingly similar to my pregnancy hormones, and I cringe just remembering any one of the many incidents during those combined 40 months of fun. On top of my delightful personality change, my body (of which I have been oh so proud) began to betray me as well. My cycle changed and the period I have been able to set my watch by for over 25 years is suddenly all out of whack. The PMS and need for feminine hygiene products lasts 3-4 weeks at a time. No more of the simple five day period, oh no, now it is more like there are only 5 days in a month without it!!! The general result of this is that I am hiding Tampax in every spot imaginable and running to the bathroom like a 15-year old girl. Because my hormones are so out of control, I am in a constant state of PMS. Not just your run of the mill, might-be-a-bit-moody-for-a-day-or-two, but all out psycho-bitch PMS. Oh, excellent! 

While I am a lunatic, I am able to control the rollercoaster of my quickly shifting moods at work, with my friends, and (mostly) with the children. The only person with whom I let my crazy flag fly is my husband. It just so happens he is also the only person I am intimate with. (And he with me, right? Right!) My husband is the type of guy for whom being intimate  is not just about his body, but also about his head. He is always most enthusiastic when we are emotionally connected. He finds romance coupled with intimacy very erotic.  I don’t disagree with this. I am happy to feel the power of our love rush through my head, but currently I’m much more interested in scratching the itch. “Yes, I know I have bitched at you all weekend. Now shut up and take your clothes off!”

This irony of my responsive body and its inevitable hormonal betrayal, reminds me of when I had given birth to our first baby. A couple of days had gone by and my milk had come in. My chest was huge. I mean, I had porn star, rock hard, gorgeously enormous boobs. However, they were too tender to touch and the nipples were not quite what they used to be due to the cracking and bleeding, and  my husband learned it is a cruel, cruel world. Well, here we are again. Suddenly my body is very responsive to his every touch and I would be happy to engage in an afternoon delight every day (seriously honey, 3 of them are at school and the baby is asleep…we have at least a half an hour!). However, I am so crabby he is in fear of getting too close as he is not 100% sure that I’m not part black widow. As a result, he does not want to be intimate with me, which pisses me off, makes me even more crabby (if you can believe it), which in turn makes him  want to be intimate with me even less. And the cycle continues.  

I understand how difficult I can be to live with, truly I do. I work really hard to control it and remain calm, even pleasant. I have learned that my husband does not find it sexy when I eat cookie dough for dinner. If I avoid cleaning the house and all of my daily motherly responsibilities so I can beat another level of Wii: Super Mario Brothers or watch a four-hour marathon of Grey’s Anatomy, Ted does not see this as attractive or cute. He does not find it a turn on to come home and discover that my Facebook status reads something like, “I am unfit for human company,” (as it did recently). I don’t really see why that should diminish his desire to have lots of fun,  fast sex with me. I mean, orgasms feel really good, it would be worth it!

My mother tells me she experienced peri-menopause  from age 40 to 50, and it appears my system is acting suspiciously as hers did. I have not yet mentioned that to Ted though, as our marriage barely survived the four pregnancies. By my calculations, 10 years of this would be 120 months of these rogue hormones, and I am pretty sure my husband may commit a felony to ensure he’d be incarcerated for the next decade. 

Fortunately, at this point in our life together I am not pregnant. I can take medicine or maybe ask for an endometrial ablation (that’s right, I would prefer to sear the crap out of my uterine lining with boiling hot water than continue on this hormonal marathon). I am done with my uterus and I would be quite happy to have it stop all its shedding. The words barren, dried out, and empty have never sounded so good and they cheer me slightly as I dream about returning to my sexual peak of 38 1/2 and the cheery, dynamic housewife that I was—leaving this cranky, miserable bitch behind.

Germophobe Confessions

Greetings to all you East Coast Musings readers from the Muddy Midwest.

I had to chuckle at Rachel’s post on germs, mainly because I could have written it myself. I adore finding fellow germophobes, partly because true g-phobes seem to be somewhat of a rare breed and mostly because no one else in the world can commiserate about the disgustingness that goes along with kids quite like a g-phobe parent.

Suffice it to say, I was tickled (and sickened) to read about Rachel’s kids and the Port-A-Potty while berry picking. It seems that kids of g-phobes really outdo themselves when it comes to indulging in germ-infested areas. I found myself totally cringing as I read, imagining what I would do had I been in her shoes (shudder).

Antibacterial wipes and gel are staples in my purse and mini-van. My kids and I never drive away from a store without cleaning our hands with a wipe. I adore the fact that most stores now offer wipes for the cart handles (one of the grossest surfaces on earth, in my opinion) just inside the door. So I get a few strange looks; I really don’t care. It’s so much better than touching feces, mucous and other nasty substances.

My kids are older now, so they have pretty much learned to maneuver through life (around me, anyhow) without getting too disgusting. However, the one area we can’t seem to stop butting heads on is money, one of the most germ-riddled items in the universe. My boys, ages 6 and 7, think it one of life’s divine pleasures to dump out and then count their many coins, especially right before bed.

Now I realize that kids don’t get the whole germ thing. I was a kid once, and a typically gross one at that. Most days, I had a dried crust of snot running up my sleeve from wiping my nose on it. I hated baths, only washed my hands when forced and had absolutely no qualms about touching public door handles/toilets/animals and then my own face.

Ugh.

However, I come from a long, proud line of germophobes. Rumor has it that my maternal grandmother refused to kiss my grandfather when they were first married until he rinsed his mouth with Listerine. My paternal grandmother would re-wash socks that fell on the floor in the transition between washer and dryer, until my father, then a child, pointed out that the socks would be on the floor momentarily anyhow. My father insisted that we rinse all dishes thoroughly before washing them because he couldn’t stand the thought of the clean dishes being washed in water with food floating around in it, a habit that has long stuck with me.

My hope is that my children, too, will someday be much more aware of germs than they currently are. Perhaps not quite to the extent of awareness that I possess, but at least so that they’re past the stage of petting the dog, horse and cat and then blissfully eating the snack I sent out without washing up, or dumping their filthy money all over my clean dining room table without a second thought.

And when their own kids produce some of the same unsavory behavior that their parents did (sucking on money; exchanging pacifiers with a complete stranger baby; putting their hands in their mouths after collapsing on the department store bathroom floor), I will laugh as I hand out antibacterial wipes.

Sarah E. Ludwig is a mom of four and a freelance writer based in South Dakota. She blogs most weekdays at Parenting By Trial and Error, has an article coming out in the June issue of Parenting: School Years, writes children’s books that haven’t yet seen the light of day, enjoys infrequent moments of solitude, and plans to hammer out that parenting book proposal by the end of 2010.

"How Does That Make You Feel?”

Today's post comes from guest blogger Ted Ten Eyck, father of four and funny man of great proportions. For more hilarious commentary from Ted, check out his other blog posts here.

When adults come in for their first psycho-therapy appointment with me, they are usually able to succinctly identify the issues that they want to address in treatment. (Or, more accurately, the issues that their wife wants them to address.) With kids, however, therapy is a completely different ball-game. Kids generally don’t want to have to go see a therapist. They typically don’t think that there is anything “wrong” that needs to be addressed. And sometime, kids weren’t even notified that they were going to a counseling appointment until their mini-van pulls into the parking lot. (“Mom, this isn’t the zoo!!!”) As a result, I need to work my butt off to build rapport with the kids so that they can become remotely comfortable with the process and trust me enough so that their issues can eventually get addressed. It’s not dissimilar to what a dentist encounters. Unlike the dentist, I unfortunately do not have nitrous oxide at my disposal.

There’s a host of ways that I go about building this relationship. I will be especially witty: “So, you’re five years old. How long have you been married?” I will play endless games of Uno and Jenga and Othello (which is my personal favorite, and not just because most of these kids are not savvy enough to prevent me from scoring those all-important corners.) Sometimes, I will engage them in discussions about their favorite sports despite the fact that I know nothing about the sport itself; these are usually obscure and little-heard of sports such as baseball and football. And at other times, I will have kids play for me the latest song they downloaded to their iPOD, which is inevitably six versions newer than mine. (When I show them my iPOD in a self-deprecating gesture, they react as though I am whipping out my yellow Sony Sports Cassette Walkman that I got as a birthday present in the eleventh grade.)

Now, for someone who is filled with as much insecurity and self-doubt as I am, it is rather peculiar that I am able to make the following statement so confidently: I am awesome at my job. Awesome. I take my responsibility very seriously, and am constantly “on” when I am in session. This is never more true than when I am working with kids. I am strategically fun and engaging and dynamic. I like to think that the parents are extremely appreciative and grateful of my efforts. And every now and then, I get what is quite possibly the best compliment I could ever expect to get from a defiant teenager: “Coming here didn’t completely suck.”

So, this is my job. I do it, I do it well, and then I go home. And every day I hope that who I am at work will carry over to who I am at home. But that doesn’t happen. Ever.

Because when I walk in my front door, I can’t just focus on one thing or one person at a time any more. I have four kids, eight pets, one wife, countless home projects that need to be tended to, and no money to do them with. As a result, I am not able to “just be” at home. Instead, I am constantly in triage-mode: “Yes, I would love to help you make a fort with all of the couch cushions, but I need to remove the tick that is taking a ride on the dog’s back.” “Yes, I would love to watch you re-enact what feels like the entire ninety-minute plot of “High School Musical 3”, but I should probably try to stop my oldest child from bleeding.” And these are just the requests made of me by my wife. You can only imagine what happens once the kids realize that I am home.

It bothers me tremendously that my work-self does not show up at home. It would be nice to be viewed as fun and engaging and dynamic by my own kids. However, it’s hard to be seen this way when I am explaining to them that they have to do their homework and eat their vegetables and not play violent video games. So, this version of me that they see every day is who they know me to be. I’m Dad. And they have no reason to believe that I would ever be any different than this. They don’t know that between home and I work I transform so dramatically that it rivals that of Kevin Spacey’s character in “The Usual Suspects” when the audience finally realizes that he is actually Keyser Soze. (Don’t even think about complaining to me about spoiling the ending of a fifteen-year old movie! If you haven’t seen it by now, you’re never going to get around to watching it.)

But I can only keep the truth about my “double life” from my kids for so long. Not that I would tell them; I’m no dummy. Rather, it will most likely have something to do with the fact that I work exactly 5.96 miles away from my home. (Thank you, MapQuest!) As a result of this close proximity, a surprisingly large number of my clients not only live in my town but are also on the same sports teams and in the same classrooms as my own beloved children. I have not yet gotten wind of a kid outing themselves as one of my clients to one of my offspring. But that time will come. And when it does, I imagine that conversation will go something like this:

Client: “Hey, I work with your Dad. He’s really pretty cool.”
My flesh and blood: “I’m sorry. You must be mistaken. My Dad’s a tool.”
Client: “No, I’m sure of it. He told me how he loves that part in “The Dark Knight” where the Joker slams the bad guy’s head onto the sharpened pencil.”
My flesh and blood: “Yeah, I don’t know what you’re talking about because that is one of the fourteen hundred movies that my Dad won’t let me watch it because he thinks it is too scary for me. Tool.”
Client: “And your Dad and I were joking the other day about how much we both love Code Red Mountain Dew!”
My flesh and blood: “Do you want to know what my Dad packed me as a snack in my lunch today? Carrot sticks that he personally cut up this morning and light ranch dressing to dip them in. Yeah, isn’t he the greatest?”

Before a conversation such as this happens, I would like to think that I could change. I would love to have my work persona match up more closely with my home persona. But who am I kidding? If that hasn’t occurred yet, it probably isn’t going to happen any time soon. And that leaves me with only one option of how to remedy this situation: my kids should start to see me for weekly appointments at work. Granted, it would be a massive violation of my professional code of ethics. But the kids would finally have the chance to see just how awesome I can be. And it will provide me with the opportunity to ask of them the classic therapy question: “Tell me about your mother.”

The Fun-Sucker: Yes, It's a Blog From Ted

“Don’t worry about a deadline. I just want you to have fun with it.” That was Rachel’s response to my query of exactly when she wanted my last blog entry. “Just have fun with it.”

Oh, Rachel. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. If only it were that easy. If only anything for me were that easy. Alas, nothing ever is, because I have the super-human-like ability to suck every last ounce of fun out of anything. I like to think of it as the mental equivalent of overcooking broccoli. What starts out as a delicious and dark green vegetable winds up a colorless, flavorless mound of something that my guinea pigs refuse to even nibble on. That is exactly what happens to “fun” once it meets my brain.

Let me clarify: it is not a matter of not being able to have fun. I can do that, especially when a couple of beers are thrown in. That is not my issue. Instead, my problem is that I am not “in the moment” for anything because I am constantly anticipating what is coming next. For example, while everybody else is enjoying the beauty of the beach on a sunny summer afternoon, I am anticipating how I am going to arrange the various beach items in the wagon to ensure the most efficient method of getting everything back to the car. On Christmas morning, when the kids are tearing off the wrapping from their presents, I basically have a game of Tetris playing in my head as I anticipate how to get all of that cardboard to fit into our one recycle bin that is allotted to us from our town.

Some (read: my wife) would call me an anal-retentive freak. Others may call me borderline-autistic, someone who could easily pull up a stool and join Rain Man in a hand at the blackjack tables. I, however, like to refer to myself as a “planner.” So, in my organized manner, let me go over the list of those for whom I plan:

1. obviously, for myself
2. for my kids, who are usually grateful that I have not forgotten any of the pivotal pieces of sporting equipment for their latest activity
3. for my wife, who is not nearly as grateful and repeatedly questions in a highly-sarcastic manner how she ever did anything with me not telling her how to go about each and every detail. And…
4. for fictional characters in movies

You were probably following me up until that last response. I am not one of those film geeks who is seeking out inconsistencies in plot or costume design. That is so not the case for me that I can’t even think of an example to include here (and I really don’t want to ever have to do a Google search for anything that starts with the phrase “Star Trek episodes.”) Also, I am not one of those movie-goers who is upset with the characters for making foolish decisions. On the contrary, I am usually thinking that if that woman is stupid enough to go into the basement when she knows that she is being chased by a homicidal maniac, then she fully deserves to be disemboweled.

Rather, I am the individual who happily pays a small fortune for admission and popcorn, and then sits in the darkened movie theatre unnecessarily obsessing over the logistics of each scene. For example, I can easily become fixated on any romantic scene in a movie that involves candles. The character in the movie is never using just one or two candles—to fully set the mood they have typically lit at least fifty candles. The sight of this overloads my brain with all of the practical elements that involve such an act. First of all, it takes a whole lot of time to light that many candles. Secondly, these are never candles that have been previously used, saving the individual from having to use a butter knife to dig out the remnants of the wick from the wax in order to light it again. No, these are pristine candles, which makes me question if the character has a closet full of dozens and dozens of new candles for this very purpose. These are inevitably not cheap candles from the Christmas Tree Shop. These appear to be high quality candles from the likes of Pottery Barn, where candles cost a minimum of $25 each. $25 per candle multiplied by 50 candles totals $1,250. That’s a good chunk of change I am sure could be spent on more practical matters. Wasn’t the person in an earlier scene complaining about their son having a rare bone disease and how they couldn’t afford the proper medical treatment? Hey, lady: Maybe your kid could get healthy if you stopped dropping a fortieth of your income on freakin’ candles! Come on, where are your priorities??? And speaking of practical matters, who really wants to spend their post-coital moments walking around the house extinguishing fifty candles? I don’t care how meticulous you are, with that many lit items in your home, you are bound to forget at least one. And then what? You are wakened in the middle of the night by the smoke detector, and trust me—that is never, ever romantic.

“But Ted, that’s not the point of the movie!”

I know! But I...just...can’t stop...myself...And again my brain is back on the candles. If the characters actually summon the energy to get up to blow out all of these candles, then I hope that they take an extra minute to make a trip to the bathroom before they return to bed. These characters just made mad, passionate love And look at what they are doing immediately following that act: choosing to fall asleep in one another’s arms. I have fathered four children and have thus been sexually active at least four times in my life. Since I can speak from that vast experience, I have learned that there is usually some clean-up involved after such acts. Yet these characters just lay there, taunting me in their refusal to even glance at the box of tissues clearly displayed right there on the nightstand. Hell, I would be happy if they just picked up the discarded tee shirt from the floor and used that to freshen up with. Please, I beg of you, do something, anything that will ultimately prevent you from waking up after a few hours of sleep and finding yourselves stuck to one another. And don’t even get me started on the female’s increased chances of developing a urinary tract infection if she chooses not to frequent the loo. (I sure hope that she likes cranberry juice, because obviously that is all she will be drinking for the next few days.)

I would love to tell you that I am exaggerating all of this for comedic effect. Sadly, it’s not the case. This unfortunately, is just the way my mind works and I need to accept it. I should get used to the fact that I will continue to almost always be on time for absolutely everything (and if I’m not, there is usually a damned good reason, i.e. alien abduction, anthrax attack, etc.). And I need to get accustomed to the fact that while everybody else is captivated by the interplay between Batman and The Joker, I will continue to be the lone individual obsessing over who is responsible for changing the oil in the Batmobile.

Guest Blogger: Ted TenEyck

Introducing: Ted TenEyck. Guest Blogger, Social Worker and Funny Man. Close personal friend. If you're lucky enough to be on Ted's Christmas letter list, you already know how his mind works. Thought I'd pass the funny along and invite Ted to blog here now and then. Don't worry, he'll get his own blog up and running soon. Right Ted?

DO YOU KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE TO HAVE A FATHER LIKE ME??? DO YOU???

I love the promises people make to themselves about what what life will be like when they are a parent: “When I have kids, I am only going to feed them organic foods.” “I refuse to use the television as a babysitter.” “I vow to not let being a parent impact my relationship with my friends.” And sure enough, a few years later these same people are plopping Junior down to watch the same episode of Spongebob Squarepants for the fourteenth time while serving him some Jimmy Dean Pancakes & Sausage on a Stick: Blueberry (a real product, by the way). This, of course, buys Junior’s parents some time to go on Facebook and attempt to reconnect with friends they have had no contact with since they first learned the art of how to suction a baby’s nose.

As for me, my false promise was that I would not subject either myself or my kids to traditional children’s music. Nine years and four kids later, I have 5,670 songs on my ipod. And I listen to the same thirty-three songs by The Wiggles in heavy rotation until I am pretty sure that my ears are going to start to bleed.

This was not something that I ever planned, and it was surely something that did not happened overnight. No, it was a slow gradual process, which began when I realized that finding music to meet everyones’ needs and tastes is much easier said than done. As a result, I now have very stringent requirements for anything that may eventually wind up in my “Tolerable Kids Music” playlist. The following is just a brief sampling of what it takes to be immediately disqualified from ever making that exclusive and elusive list:

Songs that may cause my kids to one day need antidepressants.
I have learned the hard way that my cherubs do not enjoy any of the 193 songs that make up my “Despondency” playlist. My eldest son reported to me that the folksy songs from the soundtrack to Once were, “giving me feelings that I don’t like.” I wanted to shout at him to “lean into the pain and feel your emotions,” but I thought I should just cut my losses and play something different.

I-Would-Rather-Look-At-How-Much-My-Financial-Portfolio-Lost-Last-Year than listen to these songs:
Surprisingly, Alvin and The Chipmunks are not the main offenders in this category; even when they cover “Funkytown.” This is still more tolerable to me than anything associated with High School Musical. Zac Efron, I swear on my mother’s grave that if I ever run into you and your faux-basketball-playing cohorts, I will personally kick the crap out of each and every one of you. And not because you did anything to me personally; rather, I will beat you to a bloody pulp because you introduced my kids to the genre of musicals. If I ever have to take any of my kids to a matinee of “Cats,” I will hold you responsible.

Songs that mention any of George Carlin’s “Seven Words You Can’t Say on TV.”
Unfortunately, about a full one-third of my music library falls under this category. That probably wouldn’t happen if I had no taste and enjoyed “easy listening favorites.” Luckily, most of the time, the offending dialogue is really pretty blatant, allowing me to be a “good parent” and not play it for the kids. However...

One day while cleaning the kitchen, the song “URAQT” by M.I.A. started to play from my ipod. In a rare moment for me of pure excitement and joy, I picked up my daughter and danced with her for the duration of the song. Whenever we would hear the song again, my kids would beg me to do the “Silly Dance” with them. It quickly became a wonderful tradition. Around the seventy-fourth time we were enjoying this dance, my wife quietly asked me exactly what the words of the chorus were. Unsure myself, I looked up the lyrics on line. It was at that time that I discovered that the song is rather... well, filthy and profanity-laden. If I was capable of learning what the lyrics were, I was pretty sure that my kids one day would also discover what these lyrics were. And I thought that this was probably not the type of childhood memory that I wanted them to have of their father. There are already plenty of other memories that involve me that I wish I could permanently remove from their tiny little brains, so I did the only thing I could, and retired the “Silly Dance” immediately.

Songs that require me to have to explain how communist organizations work.
The Johnny Cash Children’s Album contains the extremely entertaining song “Why is a Fire Engine Red?” The song uses fun and silly word play, eventually concluding with the line: “The Russians are red. A fire engine is always rushin’ so it’s red too.” “I don’t get it!” my kids would shout when the song ended. “What does he mean by the Russians being red? Explain that to us Dad.” And that was the last time that I ever played that album for them again.

Songs that require me to have to explain how double negatives work.
I’m looking at you, theme from Ghostbusters. “Dad, I’m confused. ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghosts’ actually means that they really are afraid of ghosts, right?” “Yes, kids. You are correct. The writer of that song is indeed afraid of ghosts and is apparently also an idiot.”

Perfectly good songs that I ruined because I’m an idiot.
The soundtrack to Shrek the Third contains the classic song “Cat’s in the Cradle,” by Harry Chapin. The kids would listen to the song and recall the funny scenes from the movie when that song was played. And then one day I had to go and spoil all of their fun by shouting like a drill sergeant: “Do you know what this song is about? Do you? It’s about a father who didn’t spend enough time with his kids. DO YOU SEE HOW LUCKY YOU ARE TO HAVE A FATHER LIKE ME? DO YOU??” Surprisingly, the kids never wanted me to play that song again.

Any item in the wildly bizarre Kidz Bop catalogue.
What is better than a CD compiling all of the most popular radio hits from the past year? If all of the songs were sung by eight year olds! That's the concept behind this apparently popular product line. Not only are these songs painful to listen to, but they are at times downright creepy. That's because the producers didn’t apparently think about the fact that lyrics that were intended to be sung by adults would now be sung by third graders. For example, one song contains the line: “I can have another you in a minute. Matter fact, he’ll be here in a minute.” Sung by someone who will not be able to get her driver’s permit for at least another seven years. Isn’t that precious?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is just an abbreviated list of reasons why I have resorted to just listening to The Wiggles as I drive around all day in my eight year old van. Feel free to call me lazy or a conformist. These labels may indeed be applicable. But listening to The Wiggles makes my life easier, even though now I have to explain to the kids on a daily basis why Greg Wiggle is no longer in the group because he has been diagnosed as having “orthostatic intolerance.” Although not an easy task, it is still better than the alternative: watching my five-year-old daughter walk around the house singing: “If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it.”

Guest Bloggers!

Hey all! I wanted to let everyone know that I will occasionally be hosting Guest Bloggers on my site! This will give you an opportunity to read about perspectives other than my own (although freakishly similar, go figure.) I'd like to introduce my sister, Megan Rose; high ranking PR exec., fabulous writer, and mom extraordinaire! She's a hoot!