Tag Archives: humor

Kids are STILL creepy: a horror story sequel

In the early days of this blog, I wrote a post about how my son would stand beside my bed and wake me up with his heavy breathing whenever he needed something in the middle of the night. It was pretty unnerving. Since then, he has changed his methods a couple of times, leading me to the conclusion that there is no good way for him to wake me up in the middle of the night.

kid peeking through door crack

Some people are tormented by the Spawn of Satan. We couldn’t afford that name-brand spawn, so my wife and I concocted a do-it-yourself version of spawn to haunt our midnights.

For a while, the boy gave up coming into the room at all when he wanted to wake me. We leave our door ajar at night. He would stand in the hall and put his mouth up to the crack and urgently whisper, “Daddy!” as many times as necessary to rouse me. This resulted in a higher than normal rate of bad dreams for me.

Even when his call did not penetrate my dream world, it woke me with disturbing thoughts. You’d be surprised how similar a child’s loud whisper of “Daddy!” sounds to the gravelly bellow of a demon-possessed house commanding you to “Get out!” when you are half asleep.

He must have trained me to become a heavier sleeper. You can only lie on pins and needles for so long, waiting for an unearthly voice either to ask for a drink of water or demand that you offer your soul to Satan. Eventually, you learn to sleep through it.

Consequently, the boy doesn’t stop at the door anymore. He’s back to standing beside the bed. Only now, he is more direct about waking me up.

My wife sleeps on a particular side of our bed. That is the only side of me that somebody should be on. When a finger taps me from the other direction at 3 a.m., it can lead to some instant wakefulness.

When this exact event occurred, the other night, I did a remarkably athletic 180 degree flip beneath the covers. Thankfully, I recognized the silhouette of my pint-sized tormentor in the darkness. “What the hell are you doing here?” I bellowed. The curse must be blamed upon my semi-conscious condition. The fact that I was able to refrain from dropping an F-bomb must be credited to my superior parenting instincts.

My wife was bolted awake by my jujitsu move. “You scared the hell out me!” she shouted at one or both of us. She was also semi-conscious, and is a superior parent.

“I want you to make my bad dream go away,” the boy explained.

“Well, you shouldn’t have it anymore, because you just passed it on to me.” I didn’t say this; my wife didn’t say this; we were both thinking it.

We let him lie down with us until he fell asleep. Then we put him in his own bed. He reported no more bad dreams. I guess that means everything worked out okay, except that now I have to sleep always facing toward the outside of the bed.

Don’t let your own spittle get the best of you

Now that my son brushes his teeth by himself, I think nostalgically about what he used to say whenever he reached some developmental milestone. When congratulated upon his accomplishment, his eyes would beam pride and he would say, “I’m getting a big boy.”

The words, “I’m getting a big boy,” always made it sound as if he were heading down to the Big Boy Shelter to pick out a big boy of his very own. If there is truly such a place as the Big Boy Shelter, I would like to know about it, because there are some days when I would like to drop him off there. But he’s had all his shots, he’s good with children, and my wife has grown attached to him, so I guess I’ll keep him.

Of course, he meant, “I’m getting to be a big boy,” but at the time, even the simplest verb in all language, unprocessed by conjugation, thwarted him. It was nothing to be ashamed of; the same simple verb flummoxed Hamlet, and he got to be famous, in spite his inability to come to terms with it.

Hamlet

Contemplating basic verbs. I always do my best pondering when I’m holding my thinking skull. Maybe this guy should get one of those.

My son has since gotten to be a big boy. But big boys still have their troubles. My big boy encounters one of his most vexing troubles occasionally while brushing his teeth. This is the psychological torture caused by a dangling string of spittle.

Nine out of ten times, the boy can rinse and spit without any terrifying results. Yet, every once in a while this process leaves that tenacious thread of spittle hanging from his mouth. This is horrifying to him. He would rather examine the baby’s dirty diapers than touch a thread of saliva from his own mouth. This goes for touching it with his toothbrush as well.

group tooth brushing

“Spittle can’t harm us as long as we stick together. Now, you boys in the back just wait patiently; the girls are almost finished and a toothbrush will come available presently.” (Image: Frank P. Burke)

Whenever his spittle clings to him, as it stretches its disgusting length toward the sink, he freaks. He makes moaning and groaning and whining sounds as he first shakes, then bobs, his head in a frantic effort to free himself of the horrifying link.

Of course I’m laughing, so I’m no help.

My laughter only makes him more furious. How would you feel if there were a rattle snake, hanging by fangs stuck into your lower lip, and your dad just stood there and laughed?

But if his spit is too nasty for him to touch, I’m not getting near it.

platoon tooth brushing

It is never too soon to learn your patriotic duty as an American to stand firm against the spittle hordes.

After about 15 seconds of a full-fledged Irish jig, the strand usually snaps off. By then, the kid is breathless and exhausted, but his mouth is safe to bring his toothbrush near again. That is, unless the strand has the unholy gumption to snap in the middle. Then the terror begins all over again. Only it’s worse now, because it’s going to take longer for this shorter pendulum of swinging spittle to build up enough momentum to break free of him.

He should have continued to leave out simple verbs and just gone and adopted a big boy to do these dangerous tasks for him. It would have been easier that way.

A 100th Post Party – with awards and everything!

This is my 100th post on Snoozing on the Sofa. It has been a lot of fun and a lot of work. The work part makes me think that maybe this is an accomplishment of some sort. Maybe, it’s an accomplishment that should be celebrated.

Therefore: Yay!

Okay, now that the celebrating is done.

This milestone reminds me that as a blogger, I am part of a blogging community. I have not been the most diligent member of my community.

Fellow bloggers have nominated me for blog awards three times. These nominations do not culminate in formal ceremonies. Rather, they are the way bloggers recognize the work of fellow bloggers that they enjoy. It’s a way to tell another blogger that you really appreciate the work they are doing.

These nominations come with responsibilities. With some minor variation, the recipient is supposed to:

  1.  recognize the blogger who made the nomination
  2.  reveal some facts about themselves
  3.  nominate some other blogs that they admire

I have been very bad at handling these responsibilities. The following doesn’t completely make up for the shirking of my duties, but I hope it makes some difference.

These are the blogs who have nominated Snoozing on the Sofa:

Sandy’s Spotlight nominated my blog for the Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award. Sandy’s Spotlight features reviews of books and author interviews. It’s a great spot for finding new authors, and Sandy is just about the most generous person you’ll ever meet.

Sweet blog

Ned’s Blog nominated my blog for the Liebster Award. Ned’s Blog reminds me of The Onion, except that it’s all written by one guy, Ned. He’s one funny dude.

leibster-award

Rafferty’s Rules nominated my blog for the Versatile Blogger Award. Rafferty’s Rules offers a collection of well-written pieces on a wide variety of topics.

versatile-blogger-award

Here are some facts about me (whether you want to know them or not):

  1. I am an introvert. Extroverts usually don’t understand my social awkwardness. I don’t know what other introverts think about it; we seldom speak.
  2. Although I have never been to Pittsburgh, I am a big Steelers and Penguins fan. When I used to follow baseball, I was a Pirates fan as well.
  3. I have five unpublished novels floating around on various hard drives.
  4. My favorite Confederate general is Daniel Harvey Hill. I don’t have a favorite Union general, which is odd, because I always root for the North in my Civil War reading.
  5. I love both Mark Twain and Charles Dickens, which I’ve been told you’re not supposed to be able to do.
  6. I don’t like to fly, but I’m not about to walk to Italy.
  7. My favorite spirituous drink is scotch and my favorite clear tape brand is Scotch; I’m nothing if not consistent.
  8. I once drove to Graceland to leave a bottle of Bourbon on Elvis’s grave. I’m not sure if Elvis liked bourbon, but I bet at least one of the groundskeepers does.
  9. It took me more than an hour to compose this list.
General D.H. Hill

Daniel Harvey Hill. He probably would have hated my Yankee guts.

For these three awards, I am supposed to nominate a total of about 35 other blogs. I don’t know 35 other blogs or bloggers well enough to make that many nominations. (See number 1 in the above list.) Instead, I’m going to nominate 10 blogs that are worthy of all the aforementioned awards. I hope everyone will check them out.

I happily nominate:

year-struck – It’s like a primer for those who love the English language.

Listful Thinking – Restores my faith in the next generation’s ability to write and execute satire.

South of the Straight – Travel, art, raising teenagers: all sorts of stuff I need lessons in.

Bug Bytes – As a father of little boys, I like reading this comical perspective of a mother of little girls.

Traci Carver– The life and times of a school teacher in the southern U.S. They can make a pie out of anything.

Papa Angst! – The trials and tribulations of an at-home dad.

Chronicles of Dad – A fortyish father who is also a Pittsburgh Steelers fan. Coincidence?

Dirty Rotten Parenting – Hey, all parents take shortcuts once in a while.

don of all trades – His taste in beer is suspect, but he still writes some funny stuff about family life.

UNDEAD DAD – Some eloquent pieces about fatherhood and being a writer.

Thanks to the bloggers who have nominated Snoozing on the Sofa. And thanks to all the bloggers who supply me with entertaining reading. And to all the folks who come here regularly to read a little, and hopefully grab a smile, thanks for putting the fun into these 100 posts. I hope to see you all again to celebrate the next 100.

Gentlemen is just a fancy word for girls

My son seems to be testing the hypothesis that he can more easily get what he wants if he expresses his desires in terms that might be used by a 50-year-old diplomat. Unfortunately, four-year-olds don’t always understand the meanings of the words necessary to overwhelm their parents with polite graciousness.

We were playing at the train table in the back room. I had the baby as well. This meant that we could choose to have all of our creations destroyed almost immediately by the continuous tornado of infancy, or we could subject ourselves to constant crying as I held the baby back from his sworn duty to deconstruct any system giving off the odor of intentional design.

I was in favor of letting the whirlwind run amok. Big Brother voted for incessant wailing. Neither choice was a good one, but the final decision was mine. The boy, weighing the balance of power within the room, turned to diplomacy. “I’ve got a great idea,” he said. “Let’s leave the baby with those gentlemen.” He pointed, in his open-handed way, through the kitchen toward the living room.

Hearing my son refer to any people as gentlemen left me befuddled and amused. There were indeed two people in the living room, and for a second I imagined that they were the foreign ministers of Germany and France. In fact, they were my wife and her sister. I was about to tell him, “That’s no gentleman; that’s my wife,” but I realized it wouldn’t be funny to him, or to anyone else.

Instead, I asked, “Do you know what gentlemen means?”

“Yeah, it means girls.”

Women's League

Maybe these gentlemen can watch the baby. That is, if they are all done pushing Germany and France toward war.

“Listen,” I commanded, as I began to speak slowly. “Gentlemen, gentle . . . men, men. It means boys.”

A true diplomat must have the ability to adapt to a changing situation. He must have the skill to address a new reality without any embarrassment or regret over what no longer obtains.

Before I could even get around to asking him if he understood, my son’s arm was raised again, his open palm indicating the path to the living room. “I’ve got a great idea. Let’s leave the baby with those gentle ladies,” he said.

I’m signing him up to take the Foreign Service Exam. I just hope it doesn’t have a vocabulary section.