Introduction – What Could Go Wrong (updated with commentary)
Note: All new commentary will be preceded by the word “NEW”
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I FUCKING HATE Frozen. Maybe it’s because I’ve watched it 22,342 times.
The only thing I hate more than Frozen (other than those people who hold the door for you when you’re too far away, and then you have to half-run, even though you had no intention of running otherwise), is my sex life. Last Valentine’s Day, I bought my wife, Lauren, lingerie from Victoria’s Secret. I’m 39. She’s 34. If the night is right; if the mood is right; if I didn’t go to the gym earlier that day (I didn’t. My back hurt.); if Lauren doesn’t pass out in her clothes five minutes after the kids go to bed; if all these things break our way, we’re still young and vibrant enough to have some fun.
NEW: Fitness update – I spent Thursday afternoon at my desk like this:
When your zipper and button snap at the same time, you need to be creative
Since it was Valentine’s Day, it was as good an excuse as any to plan accordingly. I showered that morning (not a given), and went to work. I left work early so that on the way home, I would have time to stop at Victoria’s Secret. I walked around the store until a saleswoman offered to help me; correction: I walked around until she saw how clueless I was, and mercifully picked something for me.
Lingerie in hand, I headed home. The kids were done with dinner. Lauren was bathing them and getting them ready for bed early, so that maybe we would have time to sit down and have a nice dinner before moving things upstairs.
While Lauren helped our three-year-old daughter, Liz, put on her pajamas, I read books to our eighteen-month-old son, Matt.1<——-click these fun red boxes
NEW: Later in the book, I write about how I must be a narcissist as a non-famous person writing a memoir. But I mean, the signs were there in this first footnote. What kind of delusional maniac am I with all the name changes? 1. The kids’ names – I mean, how famous would I need to get for people to be looking up where my kids go to school? Who’s the most famous author in the world – J.K. Rowling? Does she even have kids? Does anyone care?, and 2. My last name – this was done to keep my law career separate and for clients not to know about the mental health stuff. Apparently though there are like six people left who don’t have mental health issues, so I probably would have been fine.
Matt was rubbing his eyes more than usual and seemed eager to go to sleep, a rare occurrence. Maybe we have a shot to pull this night off, I thought. I put him down in his crib, making sure he had his blue owl stuffed animal. I then kissed him goodnight, closed his door and put on the sound machine as loud as possible.2
NEW: We still use this machine even though he’s four years old now. This is almost definitely parenting malpractice. And yet there are no plans in sight to change it, because there is nothing worse (besides mass genocide and The Cross Bronx Expressway) than a child waking up in the middle of the night.
I knocked on Liz’s door and walked in. I kissed her on top of her head while Lauren finished brushing her teeth. As I left the room, I remembered that I had not filled out the card for Lauren yet. This was a non-starter. A mushy card was important to her, and I needed to deliver.
“I’m going to walk the dogs now,” I yelled back to Lauren. Usually I walked them a little later, but once we got in bed, and potentially I would be winded from the six hours of heavy lovemaking, I wasn’t going to want to get dressed again and go out to walk them. In reality, this walk was just a subterfuge for me to fill out the card.
The walk, and card (in my car) went smoothly. I entered the house with the card tucked into the back of my jeans in case Lauren was downstairs when I walked in. She was in the kitchen preparing dinner. I quickly put the card in my briefcase and joined her in the kitchen.
“Everything go okay?” I asked.
“Yes. She was tired. I didn’t even need to read her a second book.” That was music to our ears. As much as we love our kids, the only thing we love more is our kids sleeping.
I helped Lauren set the table and we sat down to eat. We didn’t talk much. It was nice to have quiet for a few minutes. After dinner, I sat on the couch. I didn’t want to end my record 114 consecutive days sitting on the couch before cleaning up, followed by Lauren yelling at me for not helping her clean up first. It was Valentine’s Day, though, and I put up less of a fight than usual. I didn’t want to risk an argument that could send our plans off-course.
We headed up to the bedroom. Our two Shih Tzu dogs, Sawyer and Smurf, followed us. Lauren began changing and washing up (a smart choice, since she has a tendency to fall asleep before completing these steps). I took a wet paper towel and cleaned Sawyer’s paws, and put him on our bed.3
We got into bed and took out the cards and read them. Then Lauren opened the box of lingerie.
“I love it.”
“Put it on.”
She went into the bathroom and closed the door. I turned on the radio-alarm clock. A Chris Brown song was playing. I thought that might spoil the mood, so I changed the station.
NEW: I swear Chris Brown was relevant when I wrote this. I think R. Kelly would be a better fit for this paragraph if I were writing it today.
The bathroom door opened and Lauren came out. We met when she was nineteen. It was now fifteen busy years later. She had given birth twice. We both had a habit of finishing too many of our kids’ Mac and Cheese dinners… but she looked good.
Lauren got into bed and we started kissing. It intensified and I began kissing her body. The lingerie covered her, but not too much. I was excited. I moved down to her breasts.
She seemed distracted. “Did you hear that?”
“What? No.” I hadn’t heard anything. The sound machine was as loud as an aircraft carrier.
I began to kiss her body again.
“Brett!”
“What? I don’t hear anything. Relax.”
I started the foreplay once again. It was progressing nicely.
“Daddy!”
I sat up.
“Yes, honey?” Liz was on the other side of our door in the hallway.
“I have to make pee-pee.”
“Okay. Can you go by yourself?” I yelled out.
“Yes.”
We waited.
“Check on her,” Lauren said.
“She’s fine. She goes by herself every night. You’re passed out usually.”
We waited in a holding pattern for Liz to navigate the bathroom smoothly. We heard the toilet flush and the sink turn on. I had recently set up a Minnie Mouse stepstool so she could reach the sink on her own.
With the sound machine so loud, we weren’t sure if she turned the sink off. We waited a little longer; then the sound of a door shutting, followed by silence.
“I think we’re good.”
Lauren waited a beat longer. “Did you lock the door?” she asked.
“I forgot. She knows not to come in without knocking.”
I recommenced the foreplay and began kissing her again. Soon I was lowering the lingerie and my underwear, preparing for the next steps. Our clothes now off, I got on top of her and was ready to proceed. This was awesome. Real emotion. We were into each other. The music was playing. I was so into it, I didn’t even hear the door open. I kept going. It was great.
NEW: This is more pornographic than I remember it being. It’s like 50 Shades, but for middle-aged parents in which the husband uses large paperclips to hold his pants together.
Suddenly, Lauren tensed up. I stopped and looked down at her.
“Daddy.”
Still on top of Lauren, I turned my head towards the door. Standing there in the doorway was Liz with her pajama pants down at her ankles.
“Daddy! … Daddy!” I was caught off-guard, so I didn’t move or respond right away. “Daddy!”
“Yes, Liz?”
“Daddy, I think I have doody stuck in my tushy.”
Liz turned around, her backside now facing us. She put her head down between her legs, trying to look up to see her butt. She was struggling to get in the right position. Liz took a ballet class every Saturday morning; I guess they hadn’t taught her this move yet.
“Daddy, do you see it?” Our bathroom light was on, though it was still pretty dark. But I couldn’t miss it. Sticking out of her sphincter, like the head of a turtle, was a stick of brown doody.
“Liz…” I was still on top of Lauren, frozen.
Liz contorted herself, trying to get a direct view of her butthole. As she moved more, something started happening. The turtle’s head was starting to move a little. I’m not sure why neither Lauren nor I moved from the position we were in. Everything was happening in slow motion… and then, the piece of doody began to sway.
“Liz … Liz. Stop moving!”
It was too late. A piece broke off and slowly crashed to the floor.
“No!”
NEW: Relax, it’s fake. Did you really think I would make our now six-year-old daughter shit on the floor again just so I could take this photo? Don’t answer that.
Smurf jumped up, leaving Lauren’s underwear behind in his bed, using his wet black nose to sniff his way over to Liz. He approached the turd and began smelling it.
“Smurf, no,” I said calmly. It was too late. He started to lick it. “Smurf… Smurf! No Smurf!”
Smurf picked up the whole piece with his mouth and started chewing it.
“Daddy, Smurf is eating my doody.”
I took a deep breath and climbed off Lauren.
“Smurf, put it down.” I tried to grab him but he rushed under our bed, the turd still in his mouth. “Wonderful,” I exclaimed.
“Daddy…”
“Yes, Liz?”
“Daddy, why aren’t you wearing any clothes? Are you getting ready to take a bath?”
NEW: I know it might seem implausible, but we are only three years since these events took place, and I think I’m now more likely to have an accident on the floor than Liz.
* * *
It is a complete paradox. I tell friends who don’t have children, “Take your time”, and even sometimes, “Do not have kids!” At the same time, my kids are the best thing that has ever happened to me. They ruin our special moments and they give us our most special moments. We can’t wait to get them to bed so we don’t have to deal with them for twelve hours, but if they weren’t there in the morning, our lives would feel meaningless.
From the first ultrasound; to Lamaze; to the baby kicking; to the time that bloody mess comes sliding out of your wife; to them peeing all over you; to their mustard-looking poop; to sucking the snot out of their noses; to them hurting themselves every two minutes; to saving their lives every five minutes; to them having zero idea or willingness to share with others:
They dominate our entire existence. We are involved in everything they do. They’re our second chance in this world. Every experience they have until they’re well into their teenage years is shaped by our choices, our decisions for them. It is a constant comparison, most of the time subconscious, between our first experience and our second time through them.
My first experience hasn’t gone all that smoothly. From the moment I graduated the four-year party they called college, through the next fifteen years, I struggled to find my place and purpose in the world.
Then I went with Lauren to the doctor and we heard our daughter’s heartbeat for the first time. From that point forward, I had a reason to get up each day.
That doesn’t mean things have gone smoothly. My kids: they’re monsters. But they’re amazing. Their experience on Earth so far: good, I think. Still all the hope and promise in the world.
Our dog… his breath smells like shit.
NEW: Poor Smurf, he really took a beating in this Intro. Let’s close with a picture of him after a haircut (right after a cut, he’s a solid 6 in dog cuteness I think). They also brush his teeth at the groomer and he has nice breath for like three hours.
eyes, but I don’t get it, he sleeps all day
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Father’s Day – My book is a great gift for all kinds of Dads out there – Dad, Son, Grandpa, Fur Dad (lots of stuff about my dogs in the book), Deadbeat Dad (Not so much about Deadbeat Dads, but they do need reading material too), Dads who can’t control their eating like me and need something to read to divert their attention, etc.
They dropped the book price to $9.95 for Father’s Day. So order a few books and hand them out as presents. No, don’t wrap the copy of the book you read. No one wants your used tomato sauce stained copy of my book.
