I’m alone.

She’s gone.

She told me she was leaving me and that she was taking my kids away from me too.

At first I was stunned.

Why would she leave?

Did she not want to be with me?

And the kids. How could she take care of them, all by herself.

This is the first time I’ve been alone since the day we met.

The house feels empty.

Cold.

I would always yell at them to turn the lights off when they leave the room.

“You’re wasting electricity! Doesn’t anyone in the house care?”

Now I walk around the house, turning all the lights on. Room after room. Light after light.

Click.
Click.
Click.

I don’t know what to do with myself. The sound of the television reminds me of them.

I watch Blues Clues. It makes me cry.

I didn’t get in until 5am this morning.

I’m tired.

Maybe I’ll just try and sleep all day.

Shut down. Recharge the battery.

I made some plans with they guys. OutBack Steakhouse and Shutter Island.

That should keep me busy for awhile but they’ll ask how I’m doing and I’ll probably lie to them.

They’ll make some jokes about me finally having my space. They’ll say that they wish their wives would leave them too.

I’ll tell them it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

“Who’s gonna do my laundry?”

Everyone will laugh.

I guess I will too.

After all…

It’s only a quick trip to see her parents. She’ll be back on Monday. Kids and all.

I’ll enjoy it while I can.

No detail is too small…

Now if you’ll excuse me. I have a Zombie movie with a side of Beef Jerky, waiting for me in the den. I think I’ll watch it in my underwear. Thank you very much.

No one is Out-Numbered in this house, this weekend…

It seems like it was only yesterday that she was shitting in the bath tub, eating chalk and falling down the stairs. It all happens so fast, I tell ya.

Some Dads get a bit timid when it comes to dealing with their daughter’s progression. I personally don’t see the problem. Every time my little princess says something that indicates she’s advancing on to the next level, it makes me smile. It’s like watching someone break the high score on Ms Pac-Man. Did you know there are 256 levels on Ms Pac-Man?

There are way more levels in life.

Anyway, instead of getting sentimental and teary eyed when my baby shows signs of growing up, it gets me charged. For instance, the other day I picked my family up from the airport. We were all in the car and she asked me…

“Dad, how was your *quotation marks* man weekend O fun?”

Aside from her making my weekend sound like a gay porn retreat, the question itself isn’t much of an indication of level advancement. But she actually utilized the finger “quotation marks” in the correct context.

That’s a huge leap right there.

Then the next morning when I was getting her ready for school, she turned to me while she was brushing her teeth and had this to tell me…

“When I was getting on the plane, I asked the Pilot how much horse power the plane has. He said it has about 50,000 horse power. That means you can fit 50,000 horses on the plane and it will still fly.”

OK so she doesn’t quite get the concept of horse power. But who the fuck does? I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t even try. The point is, she was curious enough to ask an airplane pilot an intelligent question on her own. That is really impressive to me.

I’m definitely torn.

I love my little angel as this intuitive, smart ass, little munchkin. Part of me wants to freeze her, like the head of Ted Williams and keep her safe in my basement. But the other part of me wants her to be 21 tomorrow, so we can go out for sushi, guzzle jugs of Sake and talk about the mysteries of life, until we can’t see straight anymore.

All in due time I suppose.

I’ll have to wait. I need to let her tackle all 256 levels on her own. Even if it means seeing her get eaten by some pink ghosts along the way.

It’s the right thing to do.

I know this because I couldn’t answer this question, from the car the other night…

“Daddy, how do you make a baby exactly?”

My gut instinct was to tell her the truth. That you need Vodka, Lenny Kravitz albums and Binaca. But I couldn’t… I didn’t want her to know the truth.

Not yet.

So I did the right thing.

I told her to ask her Mom.

Then her Mom did the right thing.

She told her that when two people cuddle and they love each other, they can make a baby.

And then my daughter said…

“Me and Daddy cuddle?”

Then we offered her Ice Cream and one of those new piece of crap, Zhu Zhu pet hamster things.

I think freezing her head is the right thing to do…

outnumbered

Witness my mad parenting skillz.

Airplane style…

Out-Numbered by clouds only…

I hate you because you are right.

I hate you because you remind me of what a complacent sh*t I’ve become.

I hate you because you make me feel guilty.
I hate your $50 Roses and your fat, hollow, glutenous, chocolate face.

I hate your funny, digital, musical cards and your plush little cupid dolls.

All reminders of my inability to give love consistently and unconditionally.

You disgust me with your cheap satin negligee’s and your overpriced pajama-grams.

I won’t buy them this year.

We own a closet full of unused spa days, gold pendants and orphan teddy bears.

My wife deserves better than you.

She deserves better than me.

Long before you came along, I wrote her love songs and poetry. I sent her letters that chronicled my unrequited love. I remember that courtship from long ago. She fell in love with me and you had nothing to do with it.

You’re a cheap substitute.

You’re a greedy, fucking whore.

I will bring her flowers on Saturday instead. I will wear black on Sunday to spite you.

We don’t need you and your phony trinkets.

Go away.

Do Not Disturb.

This year I’ll bring her a kiss on the neck, a careless whisper of sweet nothings in her ear, or maybe even a foot massage.

I remember how to do this. I don’t need your God Damn help.

I hate you Valentine’s Day!

Fuck you and the winged unicorn you rode in on.

I love my beautiful, precious wife because it’s Friday, not because of you.

So go ahead and fall asleep on your over sized, satin, heart-shaped pillow.

I hope you never wake up.

We both love to sing and perform.

For her 5th birthday, I bought her a microphone and an amplifier. She uses it all the time. We have guitars in the house, a piano, keyboards and all sorts of musical influences, that serve as a constant source of inspiration and encouragement.

The only thing that’s been slightly disappointing for me, from a selfish standpoint, is that our tastes in music seem to differ quite a lot.

I grew up loving all things Heavy Metal; Manowar, Scorpions, Metallica, Queensryche and anything else I was able to bang my head to. As I grew older, my musical tastes continued to expand.

Now, I can tolerate most anything, with the exception of all the crap that she likes; Hannah Montana, Ashley Tisdale, Jonas Brothers, Vanessa Hudgens and whatever else she blasts from that shitty, little CD / Clock Radio we put in her bedroom.

It’s as if Lucifer himself had a megaphone, standing at a podium of evil, spewing sounds of retched, demons, writhing about in agony, in a pit of fiery despair. Not coincidentally, these demons are all employed by Disney.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m just getting old and it’s a part of my transformation into a crotchety, old bag. All parents are meant to feel like their kid’s music is too loud and far inferior to what they grew up listening to. Right? My parents probably drove my grandparents crazy listening to the Beatles and Elvis. I drove them crazy listening to Manowar and Kiss. Now my kids will inevitably push me to the brink of insanity by wearing out the High School Musical 3 Soundtrack.

But in the grand scheme of things, it will become painfully obvious that The Beatles, Manowar and Zack Effron were all genius lyricists and musical trendsetters. What a sweet moment of irony that will be for some Musical Historian / Psychotherapist. Until then, it’s just a hideous cycle of doom.

Recently, I came up with a plan.

It’s actually quite brilliant in its simplicity, if not diabolical in its intent.

I came up with a way to trick my children into liking my music.

All I did was make them think that it was their choice.

You see, I have about 1000 old cd’s that are sitting in my basement. I haven’t touched them since I ripped them all to my Ipod. They’re all shelved neatly, in alphabetical order, in one of those gargantuan, black, faux wood, lazy susan style, cd racks. Remember those? My wife and I decorated our entire first apartment around that fucking monstrosity.

I’m sure those hideous pieces of functional furniture, were the sole motivation for Steve Jobs and his team of developers, when they were working countless hours, designing the prototype for the first Ipods.

Anyway, my kids are always asking me about those CD’s and they are constantly asking for my permission to play with them. I always say no, because it only leads to a giant mess for me to clean up.

That just makes them want it more.

But what if I were to find a way to control the mess?

What if I were able channel their curiosity and harness it for the greater good of me? It sounds like molecular science but it’s not.

It can be done.

It has been done.

THE PLAN

One night last week when I was getting my 7 year old ready for bed, as always, she asked me to put on some candy ass, demon music, for her to fall asleep to.

I said, “What would you like to hear baby?”

She said, “Can I listen to Corbin Bleu?”

I said, “Absolutely not. That’s not sleepy music. That’s shit for brains, dance music, sweetheart.”

OK, maybe I didn’t exactly say that but it’s what I was thinking.

But I did offer this suggestion…

“How about we go downstairs and I’ll let you pick out one new CD from Daddy’s CD rack?”

She sat straight up in bed.

“REALLY? I can pick out any CD I want?”

Knowing I have her right where I want her…

“Absolutely. Any CD you want.”

And that’s exactly what she did.

We spent about 15 minutes going through my collection, discussing all the different types of music there was to choose from, which ones were my favorite and what singers were alive or dead. She has some sort of obsession with dead artists and she thinks Janis Joplin is ugly. Who am I to disagree?

The amazing thing is that after all these years of trying to push my music on her, in the car or in the house, it finally came down to this. I gave her the opportunity to choose. Of course, it was a controlled group of selected material but it was a fair choice nonetheless.

Now every night, we go downstairs and spin the huge, black tower of ancient song. Round and round and round she goes. Where she stops, nobody knows.

INDIGO GIRLS – Strange Fire

OK, so it’s not a perfect system but it sure beats being Out-Numbered by Lucifer and his band of Disney Demons…

I have been lying on the couch, watching football all afternoon. My wife is out with my youngest daughter. I am home alone with my 7 year old.

I haven’t fed her lunch or even checked on her in quite some time. She knows where we hide the 100 calorie packs. This should suffice.

I’m not overly worried but I am becoming a tad concerned.She’s playing with her Nintendo DS.

Playing is probably not the most accurate description.

She’s melded with it.

I hear her grunting, like an old man digging a ditch.

What’s even more disconcerting is what follows. There is a pattern developing. Every so often, she shrieks and yells.

“FUCK!”

and then there is quiet.

and then a whisper.

“Sorry”.

Who is she apologizing to? Is she sorry for using inappropriate language? Is she apologizing to her Nintendo DS? Is she apologizing to me?

I’d like to think it is the latter. She knows I don’t allow that type of language in the house.

But I am a floor below her.

On a couch.

Wrapped in a fleece blanket.

Watching football.

With Sour Cream and Cheddar Potato Chips on my face and Ranch Dip in my hair.

I think about getting up and taking the Nintendo DS from her.

“You should read a book. Enough of the game and watch your language.”

But that would ruin everything for me.

So I stay on the couch and pretend it isn’t happening. The Nintendo DS is my ally.

From upstairs

“UGH. FUCK!”

She’ll be OK.

My wife will be home soon.

And I’ll be Out-Numbered once again…

Dangerous

On Saturday night, I got slugged in the face by a bedazzled purse filled with Chucky Cheese Tokens. Yep that’s right. My 7 year old filled her purse with about 50 gold tokens and tossed it, in all of it’s glittery glory, right at my mug. She was standing about a foot away. It was like a prison beating. She might has well have packed a pillow case full of soda cans and pummeled me in my sleep. The worst part. No remorse. She claimed it was an accident. She said the purse slipped out of her hand. Like a cold hearted, blood thirsty, psychopath. When I regained consciousness, I sent her to her room for a time out.

Of course, I blame Chucky Cheese. Rat bastard.

Delightful

Over the weekend, I filled in for my wife and drove the Sunday School carpool. There are two other children in addition to my 7 year old daughter. A boy and two girls. Together they form the Kid Axis of Evil.

I love them.

This is our 6 minute ride…

My daughter and her little lady friend are yacking it up in the backseat. They are talking about Chris Daughtry and the earthquake in Haiti. We stop to pick up the boy.

Out-Numbered – “Hey little man. What’s up?”

Boy – “Nothing.”

Out-Numbered – “You seem upset. What gives?”

Boy – “I’m very angry.”

Out-Numbered – “Angry? About what?”

Boy – “I’m upset with my brother. He’s teasing me and I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”

Out-Numbered – “That’s not cool. What is he teasing you about?”

Boy – “He teasing me because he gets to spend more time with our dog.”

Out-Numbered – “Oh, that’s not fair. Why don’t you tell him to stop teasing you?”

Boy – “I TRIED THAT ALREADY!!!”

Out-Numbered – “Whoa! Settle down pal. I’m not the enemy here.”

This is pretty much where I become useless. So I throw it out to the ladies.

Out-Numbered – “Ladies! We have a question for you.”

Daughter – “What?”

Out-Numbered – “What should you do if someone is teasing you and they won’t stop?”

Daughter – “We should know! We learned this in Brownies.

Girl- “That’s easy. You just ignore them and walk away.”

Out-Numbered – “That’s a fantastic suggestion.”

Boy – “I TRIED THAT!!! IT DOESN’T WORK!!! UGH!”

Out-Numbered – “OK hang on a minute. Let’s say that doesn’t work. What else can you try?”

Both little ladies are raising their hands furiously.

Out-Numbered – “You in the back.”

Daughter – “Daddy you know who I am.”

Out-Numbered – “Proceed.”

Daughter – “You should try and talk to them and tell them how it makes you feel.”

Out-Numbered – “Good idea.”

Boy – “I TOLD YOU IT DOESN’T WORK!!!”

Out-Numbered – “How does it make you feel?”

Boy – “ANGRY!!!”

Out-Numbered – “Obviously. Have you tried punching him in the fuschnaykies?”

The girls erupt in laughter.

Boy – “I can’t do that. I’ll get in trouble.”

Out-Numbered – “You’re right. Bad idea.”

Daughter – “We know a boy at school who can burp the alphabet. Can you burp the alphabet?

Out-Numbered – “Sure can.”

Kids – chanting “DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!”

Out-Numbered – “AAAAEEEE”, “BEEEEEAAAA”, “CEEEEEYA”, “DEEEEEYA”, “AYYYCHA”, “IIIIIEEEEYYYA”

Laughter

Out-Numbered – “I think I might throw up.”

Daughter – “OK. That’s enough! Can you put on Radio Disney?”

Out-Numbered – “Nope. But I can sing.”

Kids – “NOOOOOOOO!”

Out-Numbered – “YODELAYHEHOOOO!”

Kids – “STOP IT!!!”

Out-Numbered – “LADA DEEE, LADA DUMM, LADA DEEE!”

Daughter – “You know what?”

Girl – “What”

Daughter – “My Dad’s bestest friend in the whole world, has cancer.”

Girl – “Well my Dad went to a place called UConn and it’s blue and white and he had a friend that had cancer there and…

Daughter – “Yeah but my Dad knows Adam Graves and he used to play on the Rangers but now he just works for them and my Dad got him to go to the hospital with him to see his friend that has cancer and my teacher says that was really nice to do and…

Out-Numbered – “Baby, he didn’t come to the hospital. He met us at the Rangers game.”

Daughter – “Whatever.”

Out-Numbered – “OK troops. We’re here. Everybody out.”

Daughter – “Dad, can we adopt a child from Haiti?”

Out-Numbered – “No.”

Daughter – “DAAAAADDDD.”

Out-Numbered – “OUT!”

Daughter – “You’re so mean.”

Out-Numbered – “Have fun!”

Delicious

That’s what I’m talking about. My cure for being Out-Numbered…

May I have candy?

You must first eat your supper.

You’re mean. I hate you.

Movies…

Black Princess, kiss frog.

Blue tits in 3D. Popcorn!

The Chipmunks must die.

Home Gym…

Fifteen pound sand weights.

HDTV on the wall.

Can’t do one pull-up.

Carpet Shopping…

Bedroom needs carpet.

So many patterns to choose.

Are you hungry? Soup.

Fat Ass…

I can’t stop eating.

Crescent rolls with meat surprise.

BAM! Diarrhea.

Kids yelling at me.

Getting fatter by the day.

I was Out-Numbered…

7 Year Old – “Daddy, can we please go to the $1 store today? Please. Please. Please.

Out-Numbered – “I suppose. What is it that you want there anyway?”

7 Year Old – “My friends got beautiful rings there and everything is $1. Can we go?”

Out-Numbered – “OK. We can go.”

7 Year Old – “YES!”

Out-Numbered – “But you’re using your money. Go get your piggy bank.”

7 Year Old – “OK Daddy. I love you!”

Out-Numbered – “Yeah. Sure. Today you love me…”

7 Year Old – “What?”

Out-Numbered – “Nothing. Get your money and your coat.”

$1 store my ass. That place sucks. How could it not. Everything is a dollar. The shelves are probably lined with crap. What the fuck is a dollar these days anyway? Yarn? Balloons? A key chain? I’m not buying it for one second. If there’s one God damn thing in that store that’s more than a dollar, I’m gonna bust some ass. No one’s gonna break my daughter’s dreams.

Walking into the $1 store…

7 Year Old – “Wow. Look at all the stuff.”

There’s basically a shitload of cheesy Valentines tshatshkes everywhere you look. That and gloves.

Out-Numbered – “Uh, yeah. Cool.”

7 Year Old – “What can I get?”

Out-Numbered – “How much money do you have?”

7 Year Old – “Um. Five dollars.”

Out-Numbered – “Then you can probably get four things.”

7 Year Old – “WHAT? WHY ONLY FOUR THINGS? I HAVE FIVE DOLLARS.”

Out-Numbered – “Shhhhhhhhhhh. Calm down.”

7 Year Old – “But if everything is a dollar then why can I only get four things?”

Out-Numbered – “Because you have to pay tax?”

7 Year Old – “What?”

Out-Numbered – “Forget it. You can get five things. I’ll lend you money if you need it.”

We basically spent the next 45 minutes walking around in circles. Aisle after aisle, lined with the most useless shit you’ve ever seen and my daughter wanted to buy every last bit of it. She even tried to convince me that the “Dog Toys” aisle was for kids. There’s a fine line between determination and insanity.

But alas.

Not all was a complete waste of time.

We found this…

A MOOD RING.

In all of it’s glory. There was an entire box of them. I haven’t seen a mood ring since I was a kid.

Guess how much it was?

That’s right bitch.

$1

We’ll take four of them.

Not only are mood rings totally badass but now they are completely practical.

I live with three ladies. All I need to do is put a mood ring on each of them and VOILA! Instant mood barometer. It’s genius.

Fool proof.

It’s all right here:

I haven’t tested it out on them just yet but I did give it a test run today myself. This is what I learned.

1) I am most RELAXED when watching High School Musical 3.

2) I am most UNSETTLED when I am on Twitter.

3) I am most ACTIVE when I am taking a piss.

Lord only knows what colors it will turn when I am feeling Out-Numbered…

We have a lot in common. We both love music, we like to be in the spotlight and we are both extremely stubborn. I love being with her. Even when she is being “difficult”, I have a tendency to give her the benefit of the doubt. We make each other laugh.

I see myself in her. She’s an old soul in a tiny little body.

She’s also my first born. There’s something to be said about your first born child. There’s a special bond. One of my favorite things in the world is tucking her in at night. I lay in bed with her and we talk. We talk about anything and everything from The Jonas Brothers to my 5 O’clock Shadow. The words aren’t what’s important. It’s the energy between us.

Sometimes when she’s sleeping, I look at her and think about how little she used to be. I look at her hands, her feet and how she’s turning into a young lady. I’m so proud of her. I made that. I had something to do with that. It still amazes me. I’ll never be able to fully comprehend the magnitude of that. Sometimes I smile so wide that it hurts my jaw.

My best friend came to visit last weekend for the holiday. We’ve known each other for 32 years. We met when we were 7. I remember the day we first met. He and his Mother, rang our doorbell. It was a “cold call” so to speak. The neighborly thing to do. I was sick that day, so I couldn’t play with him but my younger brother was happy to stand in. We’ve been friends ever since.

My friend and I were talking in the kitchen and I turned to my daughter and said:

Out-Numbered – “Guess how old we were when we became friends?”

7 Year Old – “I don’t know.”

Out-Numbered – “Guess”

7 Year Old – “30?”

Out-Numbered – “Nope”

7 Year Old – “40?”

Out-Numbered – “Dude, c’mon, I’m being serious.”

7 Year Old – “I don’t know. How old?”

Out-Numbered – “We were 7 years old.”

She looks at my buddy as if I’m bullshitting her.

Buddy – “He’s telling the truth.”

7 Year Old – “Whoa! That’s my age.”

Out-Numbered – “Yep. Pretty cool right?”

That’s when it hit me for the first time.

This is all real. It’s not just bottles and poop diapers anymore. It’s more than Barney and time outs. This shit is real. She’s gonna remember all of this. This matters.

Sometimes it’s easy to visualize the future. We plan out almost everything. We dream of our kids becoming Doctors and Lawyers (Maybe not so much Lawyers) or even perhaps the next great Vampire Hunter. But whatever it was that first inspired you to start a family, will eventually change.

You see, it turns out that the best part of being a Dad is not about realizing all the things your kids have achieved. It’s about actually seeing it happen. It’s about watching it unfold in real time. It’s about not knowing.

Sitting there with my best friend and watching our kids play was indescribable. It was surreal. And all I could think about was that first night we met, some 32 years ago.

Who will her best friend be?

The best part is, I have no idea and neither does she…

outnumbered