First, I do not enjoy being around Malcolm when he talks about butts. I believe he knows this, and he brings out the anal chatter whenever he wants to push my buttons. The problem is, the more reaction he gets, the further down the gastrointestinal tract he goes. He’s like a stand up comedian in that respect. The absolute worst for me is when he tells me he is going to put me in his butt. I know that it’s a silly comment and I should not fear being shoved up Malkie’s pooper, but for some reason it really ticks me off. The worst part is that my diatribes sound so funny when I counsel against him doing it in the future, “If you EVER say that you are going to put me in your butt and fart me into a box again…..”

I also am pretty terrified of being out in public with Malcolm when it is past his bedtime. Like all kids, Malcolm is pretty rotten when he is tired and overstimulated. It won’t matter if you have been out and had the best day together, once his bedtime comes and goes and he is not in bed, he will turn into a bizarre alien, complete with him licking my arms, murmuring jibberish and every whine BECOMING APPROXIMATELY TEN DECIBELS TOO LOUD. He will also spend a lot of time talking about his butt, so it’s often a double whammy for me. The witching hour isn’t a time when a big bootied green lady is at her most powerful, it’s when a preschooler is out past bedtime.

I have considered your offer to change out of my pajamas and have the counter for you to consider: Eat my butt!

I have also realized that I find negotiating with Malcolm quite taxing. Most of the time, when you ask Malcolm whether he wants to do or eat something, he doesn’t just say “yes” or “no,” he brings a counter offer to the table. I submitted an offer to buy an investment property this week, and it was less complex and time consuming than negotiating with Malcolm over how many crackers he got to eat on the way home from his tee ball game on Tuesday night. Perhaps it is because the seller in the real estate transaction can’t whine and scream and throw things at you. Malcolm is an extremely hard bargainer, and he knows if he wants 10 of something, he better start the bidding at 20. As a former lawyer, I am impressed with his shrewd instincts and clever thinking, but as a dad, I am annoyed.  If you would have said that I would have a tougher time bargaining with my four year old than I did while negotiating contracts with multinational companies, I would have said you were crazy. Now, I am the crazy one.

Cows are great, but elephants are better!

I don’t know you Jack Hall, but I must say I like your style. To answer your question, cows are stupid animals who eat, fart and poop all day. So, it safe to say I am insane with jealousy. I therefore do not like cows.

Scott Wilson asks: I imagine I am supposed to know this, but what is a “rave”? (Scott is my father-in-law)

A rave is a party for young people with lights shows, loud music and rampant drug and alcohol abuse. Behind becoming a cow, it is the thing I would most like to do in my life. I don’t really see it being your scene, but then again, you may be the life of the party, provided you follow these three rules. First: wear a banana hammock and paint your entire body with glow in the dark paint. Second: Suspend your dislike of loud, pulsating music and learn to groove to such bands as “Schpongle” and “Infected Mushroom.” Third: Drop acid. It may not go especially well with your diabetes medication, but that definitely WON’T be the weirdest drug concoction at the party. So go, live free and have a good time. Let me know how it goes.

Larissa asks: How do you deal with kids that don’t follow the rules (aka act like assholes) when they play at your house?

I think this may be one of our friends using an assumed name wondering what to do when Malcolm comes over. I’ll answer it anyways. Kids who act like assholes need to be broken, like a wild mustang. After experimenting with different approaches, I have decided on the oven as my primary means of dealing with repeat offenders.  After a kid breaks the rules for the third time, I take out the shelves in the oven and stuff the kid right in there. I then get down and tell them through the window that I am going to turn on the broiler if they don’t start behaving. Older, taller kids may not fit in there, so you’ll have to double them over like a slice of pizza. After sweating them out for a few minutes, you’ll transform those zeroes to heroes.

Kramer posits the following: I am 19 years old and a freshman in college.  I have 2 roommates, one is my older brother and the other is a random senior from our football team that’s like 25 and moving out after this semester.  Recently (about the past 2 weeks) he decided to quit cleaning anything included dishes.  Half of our sink is now full of dirty dishes and the pile has spread to take up half of our counter space.  He’s lived in the house for 4 years now and is older than me, how do i tell him to pick up after himself because I’m sick of our house smelling like shit?

Kramer. At many points during my life, I have been the “dirty senior” you speak of, and I can honestly tell you that it is very important not to hurt his feelings. The slob, if frightened will nervously spray you with shit, and trust me, you don’t want that. The easiest thing to do is just give up and become a total slob yourself. You can learn a lot about yourself if you live in complete and utter filth. Will you eat garbage? How long can you go in the same underwear? Is mold really bad for you? It is time to start learning and stop cleaning. Good luck!

Great questions people keep ‘em coming!

My kid knows how to stare off into space!

I feel myself joining them. Malcolm seems to be doing new and cool things every week, and I have no idea how much to share with fellow parents. Mind you, I have taken a lot of shit over the years for Malcolm’s less-than-stellar attributes, enduring nasty comments from moms when my child bites theirs, relentless heckling from my stay at home dads group about Malcolm being a slow witted bruiser, and comments from teachers like, “Weeeeellll, he’s very [pause] energetic,” as they stall to think up something nice about him. Now, he is catching up on the curve and I am not sure what sort of publicity to hand out about that.

Most of the time, I try and keep it all bottled up. While others droning on about their kid doing this and that, I try to remain quiet, not really knowing what to say. Then, sometimes quite unexpectedly, the bottle gets shaken up and explodes all over the place, usually to a person that could care less, such as when the deli counter lady at our grocery store asked how my son was.  ”My kid knows how to ride a camel! He can spell the word, ‘diplodocus!’ He’s already masturbating at a fourth grade level! Yesterday, he made veal saltimbocca, WITH IMPORTED PROSCIUTTO!!!!”

I realize when I start doing this, I have become the very thing I detest. To tell you the truth, it was much easier to sheepishly look away when people start talking about their kids, embarrassed of my little drooling biter seemingly always trying to lure the other kids around into a conversation about their butts. Excess pride in your kid is way uglier than your child being a baby seal killer. Now that I finally have some stuff to brag about, I am gonna have to learn to walk the line. Even so, he knew not to use crappy domestic prosciutto. I mean really.

At Malcolm’s tee ball game the other day, I realized that there is a downside to having your kid share your traits. Malcolm was consistently the last kid out of the dugout, unable (every inning apparently) to keep track of his hat and mitt. As his coaches yelled out wondering where he was, I felt responsible. I have the organizational skills of chicken running around without its head, and evidently Malcolm thinks this is a perfectly acceptable way to approach life. Getting us both out of the house at the same time closely resembles the chaos of a meth lab being raided by federal agents. Sometimes I wish the apple fell farther from the tree.

Sadly, this is the same outfit I wore to my prom.

I have also noticed that Malcolm shares my disdain for the fashion rules of polite society. He seems to select his outfits to ensure that every color in the rainbow is represented. Lately he has even compounded his fashion faux pas by attempting to wear as many clothes as possible each day. Today, he came out of his room  with four different sets of pajamas on. I was the same way growing up, looking like I got dressed each day by randomly selecting clothes after a bomb blew up at the clown college.

One of the more interesting ways that Malcolm is showing off my traits is the comments he makes while watching baseball games. I have high expectations for my Giants, and am quick to announce my displeasure whenever they do not meet my lofty standards. Malcolm has picked up on this, and if you watch games with him, you can routinely hear him make comments like, “What are you thinking?” or “Dude, you are killing me!” I have even gone so far as to try and teach him the razz, “Grab some pine, meat!!!” (for when an opposing player strikes out) and am eagerly waiting when he can actually use it properly. Most of the time, he butchers it, saying,”Grab some meat, piney,” or other close derivation.

My heart melts a little bit when I see my good looking little boy, sitting on our messy couch with four pairs of pajamas on, yelling at the baseball players on the TV. Yes, a melting heart, kind of like the cheese on a perfectly executed Queso Fundido.

Butterfly Chaser: This kid is not into tee ball, and is participating in the activity mostly because their parents either want them to pick up the game, or just want them out of the house. Most of the time, the Butterfly Chaser is not paying attention to what is going on in the game. He or she will be staring at any possible distraction in the field, and will often get hit by the ball, another player chasing the ball, or often both. The disinterest in the game may even cause the player to take off their helmet and run to a shiny object while making their way to first base.

Nervous Nelly: This tee baller is generally bashful, yet interested in the game. They participate fully until A) they come near another player, or B) a parent or coach yells something to them. Running the bases is especially difficult for this players, as the minefield of little kids between bases causes them to start and stop ten or more times on the base paths. Nervous Nellies hit well, but tend to stay at home base for a few minutes after hitting while everyone on the field is yelling at them to run to first base.

Bowling Pin: Kids with this tendency love baseball, but don’t know what to do with all the energy. Once a ball is put in play, the Bowling Pins all fall down in unison, regardless of where the ball is hit. The Pins then proceed to roll around on the ground until the coaches scream at them to get back up and go to their positions. In Malcolm’s last game, there were a grand total of seven Bowling Pins on the other team, causing the end of each play to look like a fraternity house the morning after a party.

Dogpiler: Dogpilers also love baseball, but are consumed by primal urges once play begins. They see the ball, and do everything in their power to be the one who comes up with the precious at the end of the play. The first kid to get the ball is usually the worst off as they are jumped on by every other dogpiler on the team. Games with a large population of dogpilers more closely resemble rugby scrums, as each play ends with coaches peeling off players one by one until the ball is finally located.

Spaz: The spaz has a love of the game and a limitless amount of energy. Position assignments don’t mean much to the Spaz as they seem to always make their way to the center of the action regardless of where they started when the play began. The Spaz is moving even when nothing is happening, running around in circles and jumping around making pretend plays. Malcolm is definitely a Spaz, and I laughed every time he ran in from left field to back up plays at first.

Tee ball is fun activity to watch because each team is made up of a combination of each type of players. While Nervous Nellies are wetting themselves dodging the Bowling Pins and Dogpilers, Butterfly Chasers are looking for Easter Eggs, and Spazzes are running all over the place. I have never been in battle, but I imagine that the carnage at the Battle Of Bull Run looked a lot like the triple that Malcolm’s teammate hit yesterday. I, for one, couldn’t be happier.

Pretend baseball. Everyone’s kid does something all the time that at first is kinda cute, but then starts to annoy you to the point where you wish you never stopped contracepting. For us, that is now pretend baseball. About thirty times a day, Malcolm asks who we are rooting for, and then names two teams (the most popular being the Floridelphia Marlins and the Cinfernatti Reds.) He then proceeds to run around the house pretending he is playing and then invariably tells you that the team you were “rooting” for lost by some large margin (last night the Giants lost to the Dodgers 130 to 0 and I am still pissed about it.) Eventually, he suckers you into playing catch and then actually playing the game itself, where you have to be the catcher, the umpire, and all of the other team. About the time you realize you are doing most of the work, you tell Malcolm you don’t want to play anymore, which leads him to start whining and forces you to look into a full time nanny.

The stuff in our house. Our house is in a state of disarray which leads guests to the conclusion that we are about to be featured on an episode of Cops. There are piles of shit everywhere and I fear there may be small rodents lurking about in them. I would get rid of the piles except for the fact that I have no idea where to put anything. So, most of the stuff in our house eventually makes its way to our office, which has the same role as the dead pile on a farm. Every year or so, I clean the office and promise that it will never get that bad, making Amy roll her eyes before turning her head at the rustling from the pile of papers in the corner. Most of the time, she utters, “Damn Varmints!”, and I am not sure if she is referring to the rodents or me.

I can't even see my feet anymore!

My boobs. I have the boobs of a perky high school freshman and if I don’t make any changes soon, I will one day be the prom queen. (I should also be quite upset at my muffin top of a belly that allows entire knit sweaters to lurk in my belly button instead of mere clumps of lint, but I can’t get past looking at my rack in the mirror. Yowza!) There are some people who “work out” by going to a place called a “gym,” but those are the kind of people who having working car windows, love playing with their kid, and don’t live in mortal fear of the accumulated stuff in their house. I am not that kind of person, but one day I hope to be. Until then, when you see me constantly moving so that you never get a profile shot of  my “Heavage,” you’ll know why.

What’s annoying you?

At first I thought it would be funny if I just made it look like their daughter was missing her parents, and then I realized I could do so much more with a little creativity.

I got a few takers, but no one had any cash on them, so I continued. The wine was flowing pretty well at this point, and I hit my stride.

This had the unforeseen consequence of actually waking the baby (sheer genius usually does.) In a moment of desparation, I fell back upon the best parenting tip I ever came across.

Yep, I fed the baby some wine. It’s a little trick I picked up from Britney Spears. Did it work? You be the judge:

Like a charm! That baby couldn’t hold its liquor though, and soon she passed out, unable to express just how hungry she was. Little Bayly needn’t worry though, for I had her back:

Luckily, the parents soon returned and rescued cute little Bayly from the evil clutches of the sweaty fat man. This scenario is doomed to repeat itself until the word gets out that Big Daddy Paul is NOT the name of someone you want looking after your child. Miraculously, Amy still does, even after this picture was taken:

I wanted to have a kid so I could play soccer. I am too old and too fat to go out and join a soccer league by myself, so I figured the easiest way for me to get back into the sport I played all throughout my childhood was to get Amy pregnant, somehow make it through the newborn and toddler phases, and then get to the point where the kid was old enough to want to run around on a soccer field with me. Sure, it’s not the easiest route to play “the beautiful game,” but then again, it’s no worse than having a healthy brood of kids for the sole purpose to revive the movement to reestablish nacho bars in school cafeterias.

Our neighbors got it right, they brought a nacho machine to a block party!

(I grew up on them, why can’t everyone else?!)

At the park today, Malcolm and I started up a game of soccer with some other kids and a fellow stay at home dad. I felt a certain sense of jubilation as we ran around pretending to be world cup stars and watching with pride as the kids passed the ball to each other and celebrated after scoring goals against us. I don’t really care whether Malcolm was any good (he wasn’t) but just the the fact that he was out there and having fun with me made me smile.  All in all, not a bad day at the park, I burned some calories, scored a few goals, and fulfilled a lifelong dream. Now, bring on the nacho bar petition!

The first wonderful choice I made was to skip buying gas outside the park. I am not a brave man, and can easily see myself wetting my pants in the face of real danger, but for some reason, I love to test the limits of a tank of gas. Besides my love of fried food, binge drinking and the occasional murder of a postal delivery worker, it is my only vice. It also explains why we have run out of gas as often as we do (no fewer than three times in the last two years!)  Our trip to Yosemite was no different, and although I had ample opportunities to stock up on gas prior to heading into the wilderness area, we found our arrival at our Yosemite cabin greeted by the “You’re out of gas” beep from the car and no way to make it to the nearest gas station. We called AAA, and had to pay nine dollars a gallon to partially fill up the tank, but honestly, I haven’t learned my lesson. I will test the gas tank again someday…

The next wonderful choice I made was to not have an 18 month-old baby. There were a number of toddlers with us at the cabin, and holy cannoli, they suck! People say that Malcolm was once that age and I have a number of pictures of Malcolm documenting it, but I must have blocked it all out of my memory. For good reason, too, as they are constantly stumbling around trying to either kill themselves by falling down stairs or eating something terribly dangerous. Of course, if you have the temerity to thwart their destructive plans, you are congratulated for your efforts by loud shrieks or even a spoon in the eye. I could have been more helpful to the toddler parents in attendance, but honestly I couldn’t think of a way to placate the little monsters. I don’t know how we survived toddlerhood, but I am glad we never, ever have to go back.

The last choice I made was, indeed, a good one. At the last minute, while packing the car, I thought, wouldn’t it be nice if we brought our bikes and went on a bike ride together? I did some quick research on the internet and found that biking in Yosemite is a easy/fun thing to do and, even though we hadn’t really ever travelled with our bikes before, we loaded them on the back of the car and set out.

Which is larger, El Capitan, or my backside. You be the judge!

When we go to the park, we took two rides and had a fantastic time. Malcolm isn’t riding a bike yet, but we attached a jump bike to the back of mine, and we rode around seeing the sights of Yosemite, getting to see places we never would have got to if we had to walk. The really good thing is that Malcolm totally enjoyed himself and even got the hang of working the pedals. I know that this was only one event, but we all liked it so much that I think we are going to be bike vacationers going forward. Of course that will require us finding a toddler free vacation spot and actually having enough gas to get there, but at least we have plans. Big ones.

One of the traditions that I actually like is attending the Alameda County fair, which Malcolm and I went to last week. We had gone to the fair the previous two years and really enjoyed ourselves. If you want to read about it, click here or here (but don’t click here!) You’ll notice that Amy has never gone with us to the fair, owing mainly to her fear of carnies and desire to avoid somehow getting caught between me and the giant corndog shack. I can’t say I really blame her.

Not even these cute little racing pigs could stop Malcolm's vicious downward spiral.

For some reason, this year was different. Malcolm had a tantrum over my failure to buy him a stupid, crappy inflatable airplane at the souvenir stand. Malcolm wandered off, twice (the last time being for a sufficiently long period of time that I was afraid he had already become a carnies’ new pet.) Malcolm lost his Giants hat. Malcolm also lost some ride tickets, which was difficult considering he had them in his hands while standing in line, but somehow ceased to have them anymore when he got to the front of the line.  I found the experience totally and utterly exasperating.

At the end, I knew it just wasn’t his day, and no manner of pleading, threatening and bribing was going to change that. I felt bad for his friends, who had to endure several hours of noticeably poor behavior and my corresponding lecturing. No kid is perfect, but you always feel a little troubled when your kid is a complete shitbird while other kids are around. I think we’ll probably go again next year, as I try to never miss situations where rival food vendors try to vie for your business by deep fat frying weird and wonderful foods. I just won’t look forward to it as much as I have previously.