I consolidated the stories about Fred.


...long live, Hill Blocks View. I miss writing. But the thought of one more round of "welcome backs", or obsessing over stats, or thinking of the clever response to a comment, or the obligation to read everyone else's blog... not so much. So I'll try and write. No pressure. If you feel the need to respond, you can email me. I like email. flipaul@yahoo.com

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Dad Of The Year, Ten Years And Counting.

My wife occasionally reads my blog, and sometimes she will have constructive criticism, such as "I can't believe I married you", or "you're a complete moron", or the ever popular "put your beer down and put your pants back on, my scrapbooking group was here first", but last night she had a brilliant suggestion that I decided I really could use. She suggested that instead of making up some stupid crap, I could just write about the funny things that happen in my real life as a dad to three boys.

     My oldest son is ten years old. The next one is younger, I think. I'm almost positive. I mean it would be really weird if he was the same age, right? And the youngest one is... younger still. A baby really. Babies are the ones that wear diapers? I mean other people can wear diapers, but that's just creepy and perverse. And the fact that my son wears diapers isn't perverse. It's often gross, but never perverse. That must mean he is a baby. So to recap, I have a son and another son who isn't quite as old and then one who is relatively tiny-ish.
     My wife and I are glad we have boys. All the teenage girls we met before we had kids were emotionally schizophrenic, foul mouthed, wanna-be-hookers. Of course we overlooked the fact that eventually our boys will date those same girls. Never-the-less, we wanted boys, and we got 'em. Threefold. We also didn't give our boys any of those weak trendy names that are so in vogue, like Ayden or Jayce or Peace Berry. We gave them strong manly names: Hercules Steroid, Zeus Testosterone and little Samson Kung-Fu.
     And, I've said things to those boys that I never imagined I would say aloud. Things like, "Please don't punch each other in the face", and "Oh my God! You can't drink paint thinner!" But lately, there have been some especially blog worthy moments. For instance, recently my oldest went back in time and prevented the murder of the mankind's last hope. What? That was a movie? The Terminator, you say? Hmmm.

     OK, I tell you some almost certainly true things. Yesterday, the baby walked out of the restaurant we were eating at and walked into the mall where he wandered around for several minutes before we noticed he was missing. The hilariousness of that situation was compounded by the fact that only two weeks earlier we lost the middle boy amongst 10,000 people for about an hour, at the International Balloon Fiesta. We're thinking about stapling them together next time. Or maybe one of those chain gang, chain thingies.
     The same week we lost the the boy, we had to take the baby to the emergency room to extract his finger from the plastic cap of a liquid soap bottle. He stuck his finger through the dispensing hole and couldn't pull it out again. I suggested a pair of bolt cutters, but my wife is of the opinion that medical experts are more qualified than I am to operate digit removing devices. It all worked out in the end, he still has all nine of his fingers. Ten. Ten fingers.
      Whatever. I started off with three boys and I still have three. That makes me a winner in my book. Child Protective Services be damned. All their stupid rules about feeding the children, and not punching the children, and allowing the children to sleep inside. Jeez.