Tag Archives: humor

When Virgos attack

My poor wife! She’s married to a Virgo and her first-born son is a Virgo. Talk about rotten luck! Well, actually, only the son is dumb luck. It was her own (questionable) choice to marry a Virgo. Some lessons you just learn too late.

Virgos are very particular people. We like things to be a certain way, and we will swear to God that there is a good reason behind our preferences. We can’t always explain the reason, but you should just trust us, because all of our exacting arrangements have worked out perfectly in the past, even if you don’t realize it yet. In spite of how much more efficient we have made your life with our helpfully rigid routines, you might still claim that we are not the easiest people with whom to share a living space. Go figure.

The boy Virgo has worn pull-ups to bed since he was two. He no longer needs them, being conscientious about getting to the bathroom if he has to potty at night. I know this because he gets me up too. My job is to guard the bathroom door in case any intruders have broken into the house for the sole reason of invading his bathroom privacy at 3 a.m.

blanket fringe out of place

Knowing there is one fringe bent back, he will not be able to sleep at all. This makes perfect sense, as it is nearly impossible to sleep and complain about trifles at the same time.

He baulks at the idea of wearing regular underwear to bed. You’d think he might be proud of this milestone, but he will not accept the honor. Regular underwear are daytime underwear; he wears nighttime underwear to bed. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s the way it should remain. It has nothing to do with pee; it’s the system – tried and true.

Every night, after I tuck in Virgo Junior, he wants Mommy to give him and hug and kiss, and more importantly, fix his blankets. There is nothing wrong with his blankets, unless you count, as he does, the one spot where a single fringe is folded backward. Don’t worry that all the blankets will be twisted into knots after five minutes of his sleep-thrashing, just make it right so he can overcome this obsession for one more night.

Arrangement of toys

He has not used the Mickey Mouse airplane in over two years, yet it must remain parked between the Little Tikes emergency vehicle and the also obsolete rocking horse. It’s the law.

We have a playroom in the basement. While Virgo Child is certainly no neat-freak about his toys, many of the larger items have exact spots where they are to be parked. Yesterday, my wife cleaned out many of the toys that my son has outgrown, moving them to a different part of the basement.

Later, he and I went downstairs to play. He spent 15 minutes locating all of the old toys and replacing them into their assigned locations. He pushed all of the newer toys my wife had put in their places into a big, messy pile on an unclaimed parcel of floor. When Mommy sees the results, I hope she understands her mistake.

It’s not easy being a Virgo. People should trust our methods by now, but for some strange reason, they don’t. It can be very frustrating. Mommy doesn’t know what it’s like to be a Virgo, and one day this may cause her to explode. We can’t help it that she’s one of those high-strung signs.

You sold your right to rest, old man

My eldest son recently turned four. He hasn’t taken a daytime nap in two years. A lot of parents of two-year-olds seem to be terrified at the notion of their children ceasing to nap in the afternoons. I’ve always been fine with my son not taking naps. What’s bothered me is all the naps I’ve missed.

I don’t get to take many naps these days, which is troubling, because I’m getting old and I need my rest. I am my son’s First Runner Up Playmate. This means that I am on call whenever the Grand Champion Playmate is not available. The Grand Champion Playmate is any child, aged 3-10 years, who happens to be at our house for any reason. Since children, aged 3-10 years, don’t cycle through our house as often as they might, I am regularly called up to active duty.

Playing with trains on floor

He always gets a supercool, long train while I’m stuck with the little nothing engine. Plus, he can fit in between the tracks, so he doesn’t have to crawl all around the room. No fair!

When I come home from work, the first order of business is to help the boy build a train track. There is already a train track in the middle of the living room floor, but the boy has at least four different sets of tracks, and those present are yesterday’s tracks – outdated and out of favor in these modern times. They must be replaced by a different set of tracks to meet the needs of present-day society.

Roughhousing while play trains

He can sense when I am especially weak and vulnerable. This inspires him to introduce an element of horseplay (guess who gets to be the horse) into playing trains, making it extra fun.

I should point out that I adore my boys, and I love spending time with them. It is only when I am very tired that I become a stick-in-the-mud at playtime. When you are all tuckered out, the only one you want to spend any time with is Mr. Sandman. Mr. Sandman doesn’t like playing trains.

Playing in a tent

Notice that the big set of feet seem dead to the world while the little set of feet are still active. This is the ideal way to play in tents; everybody gets what they want out of it.

Mr. Sandman does play some games, though. One that he can be persuaded to play for a few moments at a time involves tents. Kids love to play in tents, and if you can get a small enough tent, you can steal 40 winks in the middle of the game. If the only way you can get into the tent is by lying down, you’ve got a good tent. The trick is to make sure the game involves staying in the tent, as opposed to getting into and out of it. Inventing games that include occasional snoring helps too.

Parenthood means lost sleep. It’s a fact of life. My advice to those who are soon to become parents is to take a big, long nap right now. Right now!

Will work for toys

What would a four-year-old most like to do for fun on a beautiful Saturday afternoon? You guessed it: wash windows.

My wife and the baby were out when the boy came to me and asked, “Can we do some housework? Let’s wash some windows.” He then went on to tell me, “We’ll need a bucket and some soap and water.”

No, the boy is not the reincarnation of my grandmother. He really couldn’t care less if our windows were coated with gook. This sudden desire to clean up is not about windows or good housekeeping at all. It’s about toys.

The boy has noticed that there are lots of shiny new toys in that wonderland warehouse known as TOYS R US. Except for some of the toys in the aisles that virtually glow with pinkness, he wants them all. At the rate his parents buy him toys, he has calculated that it will take him months, or even years, to collect them all. This is unacceptable.

It has been explained to him that the lack of all the money in the world is the principle reason why he cannot have every toy. To combat this problem, he is determined to collect all the money in the world himself. Mommy and Daddy have proven willing to give him some money for doing extra chores, but there may be some flaw in his imagining that all the money in the world can flow to him through Mommy and Daddy.

boy with windex and rags

If you hire a four-year-old to clean your windows, make sure you have plenty of Windex, because the spraying is a lot more interesting than the wiping.

Our three-seasons room has lots of windows, and though I was in no hurry to clean them, it seemed a good opportunity to reinforce his work ethic. This could be done just as well with a bottle of Windex and some rags as by schlepping around a bucket of dirty water. We went to work at once.

He was able to reach only the lower part of the windows, leaving me responsible for the rest, for which my only reward would be cleaner windows. The boy kept himself motivated for a while, but his interest waned by the time we got to the outside. “You’ve got to finish the job if you want to get any money,” I warned him.

“So I can get a paycheck?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“Well, I don’t want to be in a mentoring program.”

This was an out-of-the-blue head-spinner. Then I realized that the reference was from one of the inappropriate cartoons we like to watch together. As I recall from the cartoon, a mentoring program entails a slacker employee carrying his mentor, in a harness resembling a Baby Bjorn, while the mentor barks commands at him. I don’t want to be in a mentoring program either.

The boy stuck with it until the job was done, perhaps motivated by the image of a nagging father strapped to him. I gave him two dollars to put into his wallet and two quarters for his piggy bank.

“Can I have two of the dollars with Mr. Lincoln’s picture on them?” he asked.

“These have Mr. Washington’s picture. He was a very good man too,” I explained.

“Yeah, but Mr. Lincoln’s dollars have fives on them. These only have ones.”

Next time he wants to earn some money, I’ll have him do my taxes.

view of back yard through windows

Thanks to a boy with an ambition, we have learned that there is a back yard beyond our windows. Who would have guessed there was anything so useful beyond all the dirt and grime?

A Land Shark is born: baby’s first tooth

The baby is cutting his first tooth. To be more exact, the baby is cutting everything he can get into his mouth with his first tooth. It’s funny how popular culture phrases it as though something destructive is happening to the tooth itself when, in fact, it is the tooth that is tearing up the world as we know it.

I’ll concede that the sensation of that first little nub coming in may be inspiring the baby to bite down on things for pain relief. It would be helpful to know how much trouble this developing tooth is causing him, but we are largely in the dark. The baby can’t tell us because he doesn’t speak English, although I could swear I’ve heard him sigh, “Oh, yeah!” a couple of times, right after he’s belted a grand slam into the upper deck of his diaper.

If teething is indeed causing him pain, he is doing a good job of sharing the joy. That little diamond-tipped blade he has poking out of his lower gum is hell on naked flesh. The fact that it lies hidden behind a baby-soft pair of lips makes it doubly dangerous.

This young man has always enjoyed rolling a parent’s fingers between his gums, but the advent of the tooth has turned him into an adorable little piranha.  It’s as if the tooth has taken charge of him, commanding him to snap at any fleshy target in its insatiable lust for blood.

baby peace sign

“The tooth asks that you respect his right to privacy. No pictures, please.”

Fingers should always tread lightly around a teething baby’s mouth, but this boy bites shoulders now. Of course, it’s not his fault; it’s that demon tooth that rules him. That sociopathic shard of enamel smiles at you from within that happy little mouth, lulling you, endearing itself to you through your gullible weakness for developmental milestones. It sucks you in, toys with you, until you are so deceived that you actually feel betrayed when the shark bites.

baby grabbing at camera

“Okay, that’s it! I said no pictures of the tooth. Give me that camera.”

From my recollections of the first child’s teething time, it seems that there is an unspoken understanding between baby’s teeth and mother when it comes to breastfeeding. Smart babies know not to bite the boob that feeds them. That’s one spigot that no youngster should do anything to turn off at such a tender age. It could lead to the gnashing of teeth, as soon as he gets another tooth to gnash against the first one.

Meanwhile, the baby is always looking for something or someone to try his new tooth on. I feel like I should be pushing raw steak at him with a long stick. Does anybody know where I can get a pair of rawhide gloves and shoulder pads?