jay | According to Chip and Bobo

When your beloved is a butt-rocker…

I should have known what I was getting into when I married him.

I was aware of his penchant for rock bands and heavy metal. I knew of his love for playing the air guitar around the house. I had listened to him serenade me with power love ballads.

He was a child formed by the 80’s. It was a part of his past that I couldn’t deny.

Or mute.

I knew he was a butt-rocker.

But what I didn’t know? Is that when your beloved is a butt-rocker, it will affect your offspring. Your children will slowly begin to acquire a taste for the stuff as well. It doesn’t matter how much you shelter them, or immediately try to switch the music over to the Wiggles soundtrack when they are in the car. Sometimes thing slip. Those grating guitar riffs – and the lyrics that accompany them – will find a way to your child’s ears.

And they hear all.

When your beloved is a butt-rocker, your kids might prefer Van Halen over Dixie Chicks. If you happen to be a country fan, you may desperately search for ways to rectify that injustice. To no avail.

When your beloved is a butt-rocker, your kids may be confused about who Cinderella really is. Sometimes it’s a beautiful blue princess; other times, it’s a big hair band reliving the glory days of the 80’s over and over again. This will cause jealousy and mayhem when dad announces he’s going to see a Cinderella concert… sans kids.

Your children may run around the house screaming, “I AM IRON MAN. DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DEE-DUM-DOO-DEE-DEE.” All while practicing their air drum flair.

Your daughter may suddenly belt out the chorus to “Livin’ on a Prayer,” in public, causing you to want to hang your head in mortification.

Your kids might see a man sporting a mullet, acid washed jeans and eyeliner, and think nothing of it.

When your beloved is a butt-rocker, he might want to name the family car “Axel.” After Guns n Roses. Because he thinks it’s funny to break out into “Welcome to the Jungle” every time you load the kids up into the car.

And to trump it all, when your beloved is a butt-rocker, he may buy your kids clothes like this.

And even though you groan a little inside when they wear it, you can’t help but think it’s cute. So you laugh, shake your head, and let it slip by.

And you admit should have know what you were getting into… when you married a butt-rocker.

Her nose knows

My daughter has an innate sense of smell.

“Ew, what is that smell?” she demanded when she walked into the kitchen the other day.

“It’s sausage stromboli,” I said, proud of myself for making something for dinner that didn’t come out of a box. “It’s going to be so yummy!”

“Well, it smells like zebra poop,” she said, matter of factly. How she knows what zebra poop smells like, I have no idea. But in all fairness, I did sneak some broccoli into the stromboli, and it did smell a little less than savory. Certainly not like zebra poop, mind you. But a little wonky nonetheless.

She can also smell human poo from a mile away. “Mom, Chippy’s diaper smells like poop,” she wailed at me another time.

I bent over to give my son the sniff test. Sure enough, Chip’s diaper bulged wonkily. And there was definitely something festering in there. “You’re right. Thanks for telling me, bud.”

“Thought so,” she said, with an air of satisfaction. “I told dad, but he couldn’t smell anything, and told me to see if you could.”

(In our house, this last scenario actually happens more than I’d care to admit.)

With this refined sense of smell, it does baffle me sometimes as to the things she doesn’t smell.

Case in point: the other night, I walked into the room where Bobo and my better half were lying on the bed playing a game. Something smelled positively wonky. My eyes immediately began to water. I have no idea how my daughter could stand it in there.

“Um, who tooted in here?” I inquired casually. Of course, I already knew the answer.

“That would be dad,” Bobo answered back, not even bothering to look up from her game.

Jay giggled silently, and then, in typical dad fashion, tried to point the finger the other way. “Really?” he said, feigning innocence. “Are you sure it wasn’t momma?”

“Mom doesn’t make that smell, dad,” she answered indignantly. “Momma always smells pretty.”

As I exited the room, still laughing, the stench trailed after me down the hall.

And then I figured it out. It’s clearly not that my daughter can’t smell farts. It’s just that when it comes to certain smells, her olfactory sense just doesn’t recognize them any more. Like dad’s flatulence. Apparently, it’s so rampant in our house, it’s made her poor little nose a little wonky.

I take comfort in the fact that she can still clearly smell my farts. Because, smart little cookie that she is, she recognizes that mine always smell like roses.

If you don’t believe me, just ask my daughter. Her nose does not lie.

Side note: Sadly, I have to ‘fess up. While my daughter believes I always smell like roses, I know better. If you read yesterday’s post, you may or may not be surprised to hear that #6 did indeed happen. As did all of them… except #3. I never ran with the bulls in Pamplona. But I have stepped in plenty of poop. And that’s the honest truth.

The WoW is “wonky”

Confessions of a former sports widow

For the first six weeks after we got married, I was blissfully happy. I basked in the newlywed glow. I had a doting new husband. Everything was just peachy.

But on week seven, something came along that put the kibosh on all of that.

That something? Football. Little could I have known that a little pigskin and 22 grown men in skintight pants could turn my formerly attentive husband into a raging, all out football fanatic.

I became a sports widow. At least on Sundays. And Monday nights. And, sometimes, Thursday nights, too.

Initially, I did not take my newfound widowhood gracefully.

But after a time, I realized that my attempts to win my husband’s attention on the weekends were somewhat futile.

After the first few seasons, I even became resigned to the fact that, at least for 16 weeks out of the year, I was a sports widow. At least on Sundays. And Monday nights. And, sometimes, Thursday nights, too.

But my husband sensed my growing discontent. And, in an effort to put a kibosh on my incessant whining and pouting, did something that changed the character of our marriage. Somehow, he convinced me to join his fantasy football league.

At first, I wasn’t sold on the idea. I hated football. I knew nothing about the sport. But at least it gave us something to talk about on the weekends. And, surprisingly, I was pretty lucky when it came to picking my players.

As it turns out, apparently Jay knew me better than I knew myself. Because for as much as I despised football? I hated losing even more.

Partway through the first season, I realized that, in order to win at fantasy football, I actually had to know something about the sport. And so, I started watching.

And, slowly, a transformation occurred. I actually started to like it. I began poring over the stats. I agonized over which running back to start. I rejoiced alongside my husband when the bad guys fumbled the ball.

My husband says that introducing me to football may have been the best thing he did for our marriage.

I don’t know if I’d go that far. But I can say that I now look forward to Sundays. And Monday nights. And, sometimes, Thursday nights, too.

The WoW is kibosh.

And the troops answer back

As you might have surmised from my last post, Colonel Dad is out of town this week.

The Colonel doesn’t travel much, but when he does, it always makes me appreciate how good we’ve got it when he’s home. The kids miss him. I miss him. And I also really, really miss speaking in sentences that use words more than one syllable long.

And, truth be told, his absences always make me realize how inept I am in the solo parenting department. Case in point, the rebuttal telegram that was delivered to me this evening:

Clearly, I have not been bringing my parenting A-game to the table this week. I’ve noticed it. And, to my dismay, the kids have most certainly noticed it.

In all honesty, when the Colonel is out of town, I feel off kilter. Unbalanced. Yes, he does a lot with the kids, and helps out with stuff around the house when I need it. But it’s more than that.

The Colonel is an integral part of what holds our little family together. He lends patience (and marbles) when I’ve lost mine. He’s got my back. He makes me feel like more than just General Momma. And he also speaks in sentences that require words longer than one syllable. I’ve missed all that this week.

Safe travels home, Colonel. The troops and I will be waiting for you with open arms.

This post was written for Week 3 of Kludgy Mom’s B2S/B2B challenge. I chose the prompt from the idea bank: “Find one of your old blog posts. Rewrite it, using the perspective of someone else in your family.”

You cannot fill a hole this large with mediocrity

My posts are usually lighthearted in nature. But today, my heart is heavy.

At approximately 6 am on Saturday, a dear friend left us. It’s left a gaping hole in our hearts, and in the epicenter of our home.

This is the place our friend used to reside. The friend, who I’ll call Telly, was with us for years. We’ve been through many things together. To be exact: six seasons of Survivor, 94 regular season NFL games, a few VH1 “I love the 80’s” marathons, and approximately 2600 hours of Nickelodeon.

All that is left now is a gaping, 42″ hole that stares back at us in emptiness.

While our entire family has mourned the loss of Telly, it is my husband who has taken the untimely departure very well. So well, in fact, he was actually chomping at the bit to go look for a replacement friend the very day Telly left us.

Which is a little morbid, if you ask me. Not more than five minutes after we had moved Telly’s 80 pound frame (still warm) into the garage, Jay started taking measurements.

As it turns out, while I was always happy with Telly, she was, in my husband’s eyes, simply mediocre. Telly came from the era of analog television. Her display has not high def, and she did not have surround sound. And she was, shall we say, not very well endowed… size wise.

Simply put, Telly was not sexy enough for Jay.

So on Saturday, kids in tow, we ventured off to the replacement friend store, in search of Telly Two. The gleam that appeared in my husband’s eye when we entered the store was unmistakable. It immediately became clear that Jay would no longer settle for mediocrity.

The next 90 minutes made my head spin. Unbeknownst to me, they don’t even make analog TVs anymore. Who knew? I also got a crash course on strange vocabulary like resolution, bandwidth, megahertz. I was educated (by both the salesman and Jay) that, at least when it came to TVs, bigger is always better.

I couldn’t take it. I convinced Jay that I needed some time to ponder. And to mourn my beloved, simple and mediocre old television. Preferably over a drink.

For now, the hole still sits. But as football season rapidly approaches, I suspect it will not remain empty for long. Telly Two will likely be bigger, faster and and sexier than Telly One.

And, if my husband has anything to say about it, anything but mediocre.