Conversations with my wife: Prison

SETTING: We were watching a reality show about how people cope with their first week in prison. One of the subjects commented that he had been wearing the same clothes for a week.

WIFE: Oh my God! I can’t go to prison if they make you wear the same clothes for a week.

ME: Were you planning on going to prison?

WIFE: Only if you forget how to treat me right.

ME: Look at the bright side: you could learn how to make shivs and shanks.

WIFE: (scoffing) I already know how to make them. You file down your toothbrush. Anyway, if you were in prison, could you wear the same clothes for a week?

Prison Tip #1: When not being used to stab rivals, shivs and shanks are handy for darning socks. (Image via Wikipedia.)

ME: If I’m in prison, I think changing my clothes is the least of my concerns.

WIFE: You think that means they won’t let you take two showers a day?

ME: Probably not. And I wouldn’t want to take two showers a day in prison.

WIFE: Oh no! I would need my two showers a day.

ME: Maybe dirt is part of the punishment.

WIFE: I am not a good candidate for prison.

ME: Don’t let ‘em take you alive.

WIFE: I’m gonna have to do a really, really good job of hiding your body.

Incarceration: A fashionable alternative to the burdens of personal hygiene.

I’m waiting for you to become a reasonable human

My well-behaved, three-year-old punched me in the chest the other day. We were sitting in our recliner together when I gave him that look a father gives his son that tells the boy he should punch the old man as hard as he can. I’m not sure what that look looks like. I’m not in any position to see it, and then I have no idea when I’m giving it, until I get punched.

For the record, I must point out that the boy never hits his mother. Apparently, she doesn’t know how to give the “hit me” look. He’s pretty good around other kids too. He seems to save up all of his best testosterone surges for me.

Huge, anthropomorphic pigs are very scary, yet he'd never dream of lashing out at one.

I figure I must have given the boy some non-verbal cue that I wanted a good, hard punch. What other reason would he have to haul off and slug me in the midst of what should have been a tender moment of father-son togetherness? To punch me without any provocation would be almost irrational, and this would be completely out of character for a three-year-old boy.

Not realizing that I had commanded him to punch me with my hypnotic eyes, I demanded to know why he would do such a thing. My tone was not at all repentant, as the tone of the one responsible for all the trouble should be. In response to my unfair question, the boy donned his victim costume, puffed out his pouty lips, and declared, “You hurt my feelings.”

I end up hurting my son’s feelings whenever that urge to lash out strikes him. This is mostly because I am petulant and unreasonable. Little boys have a need to punch, kick, throw elbows, and head butt every once in a while. There are secret cues throughout the universe that control this need and compel little boys to act upon it without warning. The little boys have no say in the matter. A more reasonable dad would probably take this into consideration.

Some of these cues come from the strange, electromagnetic fields surrounding other little boys in close proximity, but most of them come from the universe seeing an opportunity to get a clear shot at one of Daddy’s soft spots. In the ultimate addition of insult to injury, the universe makes Daddy the transmitter of its cue to strike.

It can be a fleeting moment of eye contact that tells the boy, “Kick me in the kidney.” Sometimes it is just the hint of a squint that communicates my desire to have his forehead slammed into my nose. And nothing says, “Ram your boney little elbow into my gut,” like Daddy letting his eyes fall closed in sweet repose.

The first time I gave him that "hit me" look. You can see him wondering why I would want him to do such a thing.

By now, I should understand that my boy is not responsible for the cosmic forces that I am channeling at him. It is very unreasonable of me to scold him for things beyond his control. This causes his feelings to be hurt, which in turn causes him to stand, head bowed, with his back to me while he waits patiently for me to grow into a reasonable human with which one might expect fair dealing.

He is an extraordinarily forgiving soul though. It may take a while, but he always comes around to giving me another opportunity to show my growth as a human being with his fist, foot, or elbow. I only hope that I can evolve into such an even-keeled creature as he is some day.

Bonding with the baby bump

At eight months pregnant, my wife is not so fond of people impulsively rubbing her belly. I understand her position perfectly. If there were something about my belly that made people want to reach out and paw at it whenever the whim struck them, I can imagine that I would be sensitive about it too. Fortunately, my belly is completely uninspiring; people would rather soak their hands in a bowl full of leeches than cop a feel of my spare tire.

Though my wife is rather reserved when it comes to sharing her baby bump with the fawning masses, she can’t seem to have my hand affixed to that bump enough. I believe she would glue my palm to her navel if she thought it practical.

This baby kicks, punches, and generally bounces himself off the walls of the womb with remarkable energy. I don’t remember this much activity with the first pregnancy. My wife seems intent on sharing every one of these movements with me. I’m all for feeling the baby kick, when it is convenient for me to sit next to his mother and gently place my hand upon her belly. I am all about the miracle of life, and I agree that it is thrilling to feel tangible evidence of our forthcoming bundle of joy.

However, I don’t think that I should have to come running from a different floor of the house to dive at my wife with my arm outstretched in order to feel the movement, before it’s too late, every time the baby hiccups. Yet, this is what is expected of me. At any time of the day, I might hear the alarm, “Quick! Quick! The baby’s awake. Come feel him.” True to my duty, I drop everything and comply, only to get kicked in the hand for my trouble.

I originally thought I was obeying the mother when I came running to get my feel, but it was explained to me by the mother that I am actually being summoned by the baby himself. “He needs skin-on-skin with his daddy,” she said, ignoring the fact that my hand was resting upon her epidermis.

It was further explained to me that, beyond needing to feel his daddy’s touch, this baby needs to hear his daddy’s voice every day. “Have you talked to your baby today?” I get asked by his spokeswoman as she thrusts out her belly button like it’s a walkie-talkie. Even in the privacy of my own home, I feel a little shy about speaking into a belly button. And what kind of conversation do you strike up through the uterine wall? “Read any good books lately?” On top of that, the kid can’t seem to figure out the intercom system, so I can’t even hear his replies.

Still, I do the best I can at meeting this baby’s many needs. I must confess though, there are times when his movements are so visually shocking that I must pull back my hand in horror. My wife is a petite woman, so any big movements make her belly fluctuate profoundly. Many times I have anticipated seeing an alien hand pop out of her to grab hold of my puny, human wrist. At other times the movement merely resembles the massage balls revolving beneath the cover of a shiatsu chair. This image is less frightening and I can usually be convinced to put my hand back.

Our sweet little dictator in his command and control pod.

Even though I value these last couple months of being able to sleep at night and not having to change diapers, there’s a growing desire within me to have this baby come out and face me eye to eye. Then he can tell me directly what his needs are. You never know if you’re getting the straight poop when you’re working through an interpreter.

Conversations with my wife: “Montessori”

Nothing can give you a little taste of how we roll at my house like hearing it from our own lips. This is an actual conversation I had with my wife. Anyway, it the actual gist of a conversation we had. We had to let go the stenographer during the latest economic downturn.

Wife: I just called and got some information from the Montessori preschool.

Me: What do they do at Montessori school different from regular school?

Wife: The lady said it’s more of a hands-on experience. For example, they let them wash dishes themselves, instead of just telling them about how to wash dishes.

Me: They teach them to wash dishes?

Wife: Well, that’s just an example she gave.

Me: Washing dishes is what he’ll learn to do when he drops out of school.

Wife: It’s just an example.

Me: It’s called “on-the-job training.” He doesn’t need to learn that in school.

Wife: Honey, it’s just an example.

Me: People pay big money for them to teach toddlers how to wash dishes?

Wife: They do academics, too.

Me: Too? I want them to do academics, period.

Wife: You wash dishes. Don’t you think that makes you a more well-rounded person?

Me: I didn’t go to school for it. I learned to wash dishes when my mother parked my ass in front of the kitchen sink and dared me to take one step before the plates were clean.

Wife: Well, I don’t see you teaching him how to wash dishes.

Me: I will, when he can reach the sink.

Wife: The Montessori school has kid-sized sinks.

Me: Oh.

palmolive

Education: You're soaking in it.