Mitch gets some love from TIME

Love Means Cleaning Up The Chucks

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. And now faith, hope, and love abide, but the greatest of these is love.

What a crock of shit.

Love is cleaning up the chunks. Note: both Lilly and Lulu contributed to this axiom in the last few weeks. And 3 and 5 year old puke is way grosser than 1 and 3 year old puke.

Love is finding someone to tolerate and be tolerated by, day after day, week after week, year after year.

Love is never having to say, “I’m sorry for checking out that chick (or dude).”

Love is managing expectations.

Love is letting your daughter use your favorite sweatshirt as a diaper because you’re stuck on the highway in a snowstorm on the way home from a weekend in the mountains and you ran out of pull ups and she has diarrhea.

Love is sometimes best left up to personal interpretation.

Love is challenging.

Love means spraying in the bathroom even though you’re really proud of your work.

Love done right involves more giving than taking, unless you’re home alone.

Love cures ennui, but it can’t cure diaper rash.

Love is blind, especially at last call.

Love is tearing up at your daughter’s ballet recital.

Love is tearing up when your daughter pile drives a knee to your stones when you are trying to put on Curious George for her.

Love is not bugging your spouse for sex when your spouse has the flu.

Love is remembering not to be a selfish prick even when you really feel like being one.

Love is lying to your mom about going to church, just to make her feel good.

Love is asking your wife if she’s dropped a couple of pounds during “fudge season.”

Love is letting your wife sleep in on Saturday morning AND Sunday morning.

Love is not expecting any reciprocation from the last one…but knowing deep down that you better get some reciprocation anyway.

Love means Tivo-ing the game and watching it when everyone goes to bed.

Love means watching Grey’s Anatomy with your wife once in while to show her you can pretend a little bit that you find her taste in TV shows even remotely interesting.

Love is a lot of freaking work.

Love has its rewards, but sometimes you have to look real hard to find them.

Love is simultaneously over-hyped and underrated.

Love is better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Love is Evol spelled backwards.

The 40 Year Old Virgin

I turned 40 this past summer: a formidable milestone in many ways, a time to say goodbye to youth’s transgressions and welcome adulthood in its fullest sense. What better way to enter into my second forty years than to play out a scene from a favorite movie of my youth? Here’s a hint: quoting Irwin M. Fletcher, “using the whole fist, Doc?” Yes folks, I am referring to the fabulous, always enjoyable, fully invasive, this-may-be-a-bit-uncomfortable, prostate exam. That special moment in a man’s life that gives new meaning to the word “vulnerability.”

To add to my particular indignation was the twenty-something student playing tag-along with my doctor. It’s one thing to mentally prepare for the old rubber glove treatment, the de facto kickoff to life’s second half. But it really blows having that special moment witnessed by some punk thriving in the midst of post-teen, bullet-proof, immortality.

So the rubber glove snaps. The lube splats out of the tube. I search for a happy place. And I’m struck by a line I heard Ray Romano utter in a stand-up routine. In discussing this very topic he said, “I was afraid it was going to hurt…but I was more afraid that it wouldn’t.” Well said, Raymond. Well said.

After the probe was all said and done, my prostate the proper size, or texture, or whatever the hell result they rummage for; I pulled up my pants and now, alone in the room, I looked in the mirror. For the first time in my life I didn’t see that kid that used to drop trou on the dance floor to impress the ladies (Ok, not a great strategy in hindsight.) I saw a forty-year-old. A husband. A dad. I realized I was ready for the second half. That knowledge felt good and gave me confidence to embrace my life.

But my ass had just been violated in front of an audience. Such a thing lingers a bit; saps some of that confidence. If I may invoke Fletch once again, I felt like a hundred dollars. But a shower and a few weeks to dull the memory can do wonders. And you do what you need to do for yourself and your family. In forty-eight weeks or so I’ll be going back in for the annual rectal massage. I say snap on the glove, grease it up, and bring it on. Just next time; dim the lights, play some Kenny G, and lose the audience.

Just because I like to make dudes cringe…

Ok. My new best friend, Harmonica Man, one upped my vasectomy post by so cruelly describing how he was snipped, sans local anesthetic, and thusly and understandably passed out. Anyone who has felt that snip and smelled the burning flesh of the vas deferens being cauterized knows that doing this “al natural” would be…..bad.

Not to be outdone, I might as well return the volley and take it to the next level. So, on that note: let’s talk about kidney stones.

Attack without warning

It was 1996, but I remember it as if it were 2006. Frenchy had already gone to work and I was awoken with an odd sensation in my GI tract. Anticipating a bit of Montezuma’s revenge, I hightailed it to the shitter. Only nothing happened. I sat there feeling nauseous until I began to sweat and become dizzy. I stood, now concerned as my condition escalated, and as I became erect, I was struck so suddenly and so severely that I nearly lost consciousness. I remember being face-down on the bathroom floor, fearing death (as I had never before, nor since, experienced anything remotely comparable).

Praise Jesus

I apologized to God for my many sins and prepared for the next dimension until I found enough inner strength to get to my knees and search for a phone. I was literally in so much pain that I could not see the numbers to dial. Ironically, my fiscal responsibility overshadowed my impending demise, for instead of dialing 911 when I finally was able to visualize the keys; I called for a cab. I was still unemployed at the time, and I somehow knew an ambulance would be a tad out of my price range. I decided to choose life and I struggled to dial the number. Note: This was during the height of our boozing days, and I knew the taxi number better than my own.

ER

As we got in sight of the hospital, my cab driver stopped at a red light. Keep in mind that it’s about 5am, and I’m literally moaning and groaning in the back of the cab like I’d been shot. The cabby had to be freaking out. As I noticed we stopped moving, and there were no other cars on the road, and I still think I’m dying, I yelled something to the effect of, “RUN THE FUCKING LIGHT AND GET ME TO THE FUCKING HOSPITAL, please.”

I don’t remember anything after that, I believe heavy narcotics were in play soon after my arrival.

Girls, stop whining about delivery pain

A point of fact. Two of my ER nurses had both given birth and had kidney stones. They both concurred that the pain from stones far surpasses that of child birth. I have since had this opinion reiterated by other women. Strangely, when I attempt to discuss this with pregnant women, I receive a range of reactions from smirks to a particular finger being extended in my direction.

Battery Acid Pee-pee

The next week or so I was in and out of the hospital from similar, though not as severe, attacks. During this time I endured a couple of fun activities. First came pissing blood. This, though gross, was not that bad until it began to burn. And with each successive urination came an increase in burning. This culminated in me having to “hold it” for hour upon hour until I could hold it no longer and finally relieve myself with such agony that my neighbors could hear me scream.

An added twist to this painful bodily function were the blood clots that began to squirt out, scaring the living shit out of me. I could feel them make their way through the Urethra until they emerged into the strainer that I was required to pee in to attempt to catch the stone. Gross? Oh yeah.

The Silver Stallion

Somewhere along the line, during my numerous hospital/doctor visits, it was decided that my bleeding was a result of some type of infection. I needed a stent (picture a thin, spaghetti-like tube) to be inserted between my bladder and my kidney to open up that pathway. And there was only one way in. Yep, through the wee-wee. Now you may ask, how does one jam a piece of spaghetti into one’s penis? Well, it’s easy. All one needs is a shiny metallic device, a cylinder of sorts, about the circumference of a straw, roughly a foot long, to be inserted into the penis and up the urinary tract to create a resistance free opening for the spaghetti to be inserted. This device was so glibly referred to by my male nurse as the Silver Stallion. Yes, joy of joys, I had a male nurse sterilize my twig and berries and assist in this little party. Aside from my sheer terror, I pondered whether I should fluff it up a little or just leave it as is; a scared little limp piece of flesh. I was too drugged up to get any fluff anyway, so I just coward in teeny-ness and bit on a wooden spoon to muffled the shrieks.

It gets worse

My doctor concluded my stone was stuck and said they needed to go in and get it. One moment I’m on a gurney getting anesthesia, the next I’m waking in the recovery room with a catheter extending out of my sad little buddy. Though it’s great to be able to pee while laying in bed, that’s about all that’s good about having a catheter. A couple weeks later, everything was back to normal with one minor detail remaining; the stent needed to come out.

Now we’re in the office. I’m on my back, balls in the breeze. The same male nurse gauzing me with iodine. And the doctor wielding the mighty sword, the Silver Stallion. This time I did not have the benefit of a week’s worth of morphine clouding my bloodstream. I have only one thing to say about that. Ouch. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, ouch.

The sequel ???

They say that kidneys stones tend to return to those who have joined the club. My doctor said I should expect another visit sometime within 10 years. I’ve just begun year 11. I’m so due. I’m scared. Someone hold me.

I’d love to hear about your experiences, fellow club members. I know you’re out there.

“How ‘bout a couple extra stitches, Doc?” A Mother’s Day post?????

At the risk at attracting even more blog hits from nasty Google searches, here we go.

During a plane ride a few days ago I stumbled upon this article in Best Life: Can I Buy My Wife A New Va-Jay-Jay? “This year for Mother’s Day, why not give your wife….a new Vagina?” I wonder if Hallmark has any cards that go with such a gift?

Every dad has heard or said this common line during a chat with the fellas when someone has a pregnant wife, “How ‘bout a couple extra stitches, doc?” It’s the generic joke that addresses man’s fear of being faced with having to make love to the female version of the Lincoln Tunnel. But, this article about designer vaginoplasty takes the discussion to a whole new level––imagining moms recreating the vagina of an 18-year-old.

The article is tongue-in-cheek; it’s pretty funny actually. But it brings to mind the ever-present problem I have with the modern state of being a woman. Hmmm. That doesn’t sound right.

As the papa of two lovely little ladies, it really pisses me off at what they’ll be faced with going forward––all the superficial bullshit women thrust upon each other. The never-ending search to “look good” and the evil campaign to make each other feel bad about each other’s bodies. And now, this Holy Grail-esq search for a teenaged vagina.

I can just hear the conversation, “Doc, I want the ass of a twelve-year-old boy, the tits of a Macy’s parade float, and the box of a pep squad girl.” Yeash. Where will it end? And women wonder why self-esteem is vaporizing across our national landscape.

Ladies, you need to take a page from our book. When we look at the cover of a Men’s Health mag, we don’t feel inadequate. We call the guy a douche and head to the nearest sports bar for some beer and wings. Fat and happy is our mantra. Our vanity goes no further than trying not to be the fattest guy at the pool––and making every attempt to position ourselves as close to the fattest guy as possible to benefit from the positive juxtaposition.

Now I’m not trying to be the obesity proponent. Since we started the McDad litter, I’ve increased my body mass by a good 25 lbs. and I definitely want to get rid of each one of them. But as anyone in my inner circle knows, I’m not exactly gripping about it. I haven’t gotten the lipo evaluation yet. I’m not downing Fen-phen. I’m enjoying yet another man-perk, caressing my sexy beer-belly and easing into my workout program––we’re now into month 4 of the planning process.

So, I guess what I’m saying is that instead of falling for the Hollywood trappings of designer vaginas, let start with a few sets of kegles and take it from there. Life’s too short. Sanity needs to make a comeback. And we men love you just the way you are.

Happy Mother’s Day!

PMS is your friend…A pregnacy guide.

Lamaze: do I really need to do this?

Let me start by saying that during our first pregnancy, MRS and I attended an Over 30 Lamaze class which allowed us to meet a lot of new friends and realize that we were not the only couple in the world without tongue rings and lower back tattoos having kids. Other than that, from the male perspective, Lamaze was a total waste of time. This statement, of course, excludes you if you happen to be the OCD type that needs every morsel of information on every aspect of life in order to function. If you are like me, a whisper closer to a go-with-the-flow mentality, you do not need Lamaze; but you need to take the class, regardless. From a CYA perspective, attending said class will be one of the endless and often confusing aspects of pregnancy-life that we men just have to endure. We do these things out of love, out of respect, and out of sheer uncompromising terror. Plus, if you happen to find yourself in a high-risk pregnancy, or dealing with unusual circumstances, you’ll be best served to be as informed as possible.

Man need not apply

If you find yourself in an “according to Hoyle” pregnancy, you need just one piece of advice. This gem was imparted to me at a party during pregnancy #1. Some veteran father of three that I met at a Christmas party pulled me away from a group Lamaze chat and said, “Do you want the real scoop?” Of course I said, yes. “They don’t need you.” My dim gaze told him I needed further clarification. “You are paying professional doctors and nurses good money to deliver your baby. Trust me, they don’t need some fumbling, freaked-out, father-to-be getting in the way trying to get his wife to breath and count of ten and focus on a lucky charm across the delivery room. Your main duty is to not piss off your wife, and mentally prepare yourself for the vaginal metamorphosis that you are about to witness—if you have the balls to look at it.”

Exorcisms for Dummies

What a relief. The first couple Lamaze classes made my head spin. Every time my wife farted I thought it was premature labor and I found myself paging our obstetrician. The revelation, “they don’t need me,” turned out to be dead-on since they really did not need me. And most of all it allowed me to focus on the real challenge: spending nine months with a pregnant woman. Or as I call it: spending nine months with the evil spirit that possessed my wife.

As those of you living with a pregnant woman are learning, and those of us who have survived it already know, pregnancy-life can be, if anything, unpredictable. Our beautiful cherubs, our snowflakes, our delicate life-vessels, can get downright nasty as they incubate our offspring. A select few women bask in pregnancy’s ever-warming glow, cherishing every cell replication, hoping only to decelerate the process to extend gestation to perhaps 18 months if it were possible. Even these whimsical creatures have the ability to turn on their impregnators as readily as Roy’s white tiger turned on him with ferocious haste and cold-blooded precision. Unfortunately, the majority of our gals fall into the following general category: The I’m fat, bloated, uncomfortable, sick of puking, don’t care if you never get sex again go in the shower and do it yourself just leave me alone, hormonally radioactive, don’t call me crazy, I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you, make love to me, my breasts hurt go away, what the hell is all this leaking, holy shit is my ass really this large, get me some damn iced cream, forget that get me my Tums, ah crap I have to barf again, have you finished repainting the nursery yet I asked you to do it seven minutes ago, I need another backrub, I never want to see that penis again—subset.

When animals attack

Realize that the even first group of ladies, the Cherishers, could gnaw on your bones from the subtlest male transgression or misperceived cross look from the moronic Neanderthal sharing her bed—a la Montecore the tiger toward Mr. Horn. Fortunately, we men have legislation in force to prevent such brutality. Considering Group 1, The Cherishers, are capable of such lethal force, just imagine what atrocities Group 2, The Radioactives, are capable of delivering.

Maybe PMS isn’t that bad

My darling bride, the creator of my two beautiful girls, the woman that I fully expect to grow old with, to my despair landed squarely in the middle of Group 2 for both pregnancies. Ladies and gentlemen, pay heed to these words. For I stared into the eyes and the soul of this creature and I’m lucky to still be here to impart my wisdom. We’re all familiar with the barely-perceivable mood swings some women may occasionally experience during menses (well, familiar at least with the urban myth associated with this monthly egg-drop since). Pregnancy can make you pine for those heavenly days. Trust me when I say that the volcanic instability that exists with the Group 2’s will force you to redefine every ounce of your heterosexuality. Many a night during our pregnancies, I contemplated the advantages of life on the other team. Now granted, I’ve never thought of other men in a romantic sense and that has remained constant throughout this process. But as any father knows, romance plays such an infinitesimal part of post-pregnancy life that the trade-off is rendered moot. That obstacle cleared, just imagine the inherited benefits of jumping ship: the doubled wardrobe, the built in golf partner, the death of chick-flicks, the complete and systematic removal of feminine issues and feminine products from the bathroom.

FFA … Frightened Fathers Anonymous

OK. Maybe abandoning my career-long sexual preference is a radical move when I consider how time truly does heal all wounds. As MRS and I approach the two-year anniversary of her last pregnancy (well, at least her last pregnancy with me thanks to my Urologist and soldering iron), I have to admit that much of the anguish from those two nine-month torture sessions has faded. Granted, pregnancy was no cakewalk for her, what with the vomiting, the back pain, the breast pain, the enlarged ass that caused her so much angst, and the Mexican-jumping-bean hormones. But, my God, what about me? Where were my advocates? Where was my support group? What processes were in place to assuage my psyche from the months of fear and physical violence that befell me (OK, she only hit me once, but I did forget to tell the kid at Dairy Queen to leave the nuts off her sundae)?

The answers are simple. There are none. We are stranded souls shipwrecked on the Island of Turn the Other Cheek. And truth be told, it’s probably for the best. The fact is that pregnancy is hell on a woman’s body and mind. Men do not have the constitution to endure the process. So the least we could do is endure the one we love since our only other function in the process was the less-than-spectacular bedroom effort we made to initiate this crazy circus.

So today’s moral: go to Lamaze. Acquiesce to all her needs. For after all, we do love them and they are growing our offspring. In between shit-storms you’ll have special, everlasting moments as you prepare for the new addition. And as I say about virtually every aspect of becoming a dad, “the moments of bliss far outweigh the hours of agony.”

Now those of you hiding from your pregnant partner, get off the computer and turn off the TV and go caress her hair and rub her back; just never drop your guard. Roy dropped his guard once and, well, you get the point.

Snip Tuck

After Lulu came along, and I could see 40 lurking not-so-discreetly around the corner, MRS and I decided we’d caught our limit with our two girls. Neither one of us being exceptionally fond of any of the birth control options available, we were left with only one viable choice. Yes kids, I referring to my Vasectomy. Despite the true commonness of the procedure, and the legions of comrades I know who’ve preceded me into that most permanent of neutering, I entered into the fray drastically naive. For those of you contemplating this action—rest assured—it really is not a big deal. There are, however, numerous little surprises that pop up (npi) during the procedure. And one very large surprise in the postoperative arena. The Procedure:

  • We start with a Valium IV. Very nice. I highly recommend this.
  • We do the standard “here’s what’s going to happen” chat with the doc.
  • I don’t know if this was a special case because I’m cute or if this is standard practice, but my doc did the whole thing solo. This included the dry shave on my scrotum that I would have been more than happy to take care of at home had I know. Ironically, the Valium buzz was so nice that a dry Bic on my nads from a man wasn’t even too unpleasant.
  • Next comes the actual procedure. This consists of a two small sack incisions, a quick search for vas deferens #1 (the sperm tube), the vas deferens is tugged out through the incision and snipped (killing it’s special purpose), the VD is then cauterized (and yes, you can smell the burning ball vein), the now two-piece tube is then returned to the friendly confines and then the same thing happens to VD #2.
  • A few stitches and I’m waddling back to the waiting room, a eunuch in need of a hug.

PostOp: Here comes the unexpected. And this comes right from the photocopied instructions from my Urologist.

  • Remain in bed for a few hours and elevate your nut bag…blah, blah, blah.
  • No vigorous work/sports for a couple weeks. Fine, no biggie.
  • Tylenol…blah, blah, blah.
  • You may have sex two weeks following the procedure. But remember you’re not considered infertile until we’ve seen two clean semen specimens two weeks apart. Good to know.
  • (Here’s the big one, and I quote..)It generally takes 20-30 ejaculations over a four-week period following your two weeks of abstinence for the tubes to be free of sperm. When you think you have ejaculated 30 times, at six weeks after your vasectomy, bring in a specimen to the office within one to two hours after you have produced it by masturbation. Excuse me? Let me get this straight. I have to knock out 30 loads in twenty eight days and my balls feel like Pele just used them on a penalty kick.

The good news was that MRS committed to contribute to two of the thirty; leaving me only twenty-eight to take care of on my own. She may have exceeded expectations and assisted on three, I can’t remember. And that’s it. I’m now free to fornicate with my wife once a month with 99.9% assurance that I won’t knock her up.

Easy Riders I’m curious. When did it become necessary to don bike leotards to ride a bike? Where was that line of demarcation drawn? I’ve been riding a bike all my life and not once have I ever thought, “boy this T-shirt is really slowing me down.” OK. If you’re a world-class athlete named Lance or Floyd: go ahead, knock yourself out. You can wear body latex for all I care. Even you hard-core amateurs riding thousands of miles a weekend: have at it. But for the rest of you leg-shavers, come on, take a peek in the mirror. You look like a bunch of douche bags. And what’s with the leg shaving, anyway? I know…I know…just preventing “road rash,” right? Well, I’m not buying that for a second. Unless your Schwinn ten-speed happens upon some X-Games track and you catch some unexpected “air,” I’m pretty sure you’re just shaving for the fun of it. And hey, I’m not judging, just calling it what it is. You dig shaving your legs. Embrace it. So my neighbor, 50’s, skinny legs, no ass, fat gut, saggy man-boobs, emerges from his garage today in full neon-yellow bike leotards. Apparently he needs to shave a few hundredths off his time on that ride to the park and back. Look, when you go swimming, do you slap on a Speedo? Of course not. Even if I’m going to swim a few laps to get the heart pumping, I’m still wearing board shorts to do it. Just as when I hop on my bike for an hour or so I’m wearing cargo shorts and my “Who Farted” T-shirt. I know we all like to “gear up” for our favorite activities these days, but please, someone needs to enact some basic standards. Let’s let our collective consciences guide us.Another favorite of mine are the little gangs of leg-shavers that feel the need to gather at a coffee shop after the big ride. Sweaty, legs glistening, they plop their space helmets on the tables, click-clack around on their little pedal-cleats, while blinding innocent people-watchers with their peacock-like costumes that if any tighter would let you know if they were circumcised or not. It’s enough already.Maybe we can start some form of grassroots campaign to buy these “athletes” stationary bikes, thus allowing them to “train” in the privacy of their own homes, wearing pantyhose and leg-warmers for all I care. Let’s get ‘em off the streets, people.On that note, I’m off to hop in the pool. Now, where’s that Speedo?
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Easy Riders

I’m curious. When did it become necessary to don bike leotards to ride a bike? Where was that line of demarcation drawn? I’ve been riding a bike all my life and not once have I ever thought, “boy this T-shirt is really slowing me down.”

OK. If you’re a world-class athlete named Lance or Floyd: go ahead, knock yourself out. You can wear body latex for all I care. Even you hard-core amateurs riding thousands of miles a weekend: have at it. But for the rest of you leg-shavers, come on, take a peek in the mirror. You look like a bunch of douche bags. And what’s with the leg shaving, anyway? I know…I know…just preventing “road rash,” right? Well, I’m not buying that for a second. Unless your Schwinn ten-speed happens upon some X-Games track and you catch some unexpected “air,” I’m pretty sure you’re just shaving for the fun of it. And hey, I’m not judging, just calling it what it is. You dig shaving your legs. Embrace it.

So my neighbor, 50’s, skinny legs, no ass, fat gut, saggy man-boobs, emerges from his garage today in full neon-yellow bike leotards. Apparently he needs to shave a few hundredths off his time on that ride to the park and back. Look, when you go swimming, do you slap on a Speedo? Of course not. Even if I’m going to swim a few laps to get the heart pumping, I’m still wearing board shorts to do it. Just as when I hop on my bike for an hour or so I’m wearing cargo shorts and my “Who Farted” T-shirt. I know we all like to “gear up” for our favorite activities these days, but please, someone needs to enact some basic standards. Let’s let our collective consciences guide us.

Another favorite of mine are the little gangs of leg-shavers that feel the need to gather at a coffee shop after the big ride. Sweaty, legs glistening, they plop their space helmets on the tables, click-clack around on their little pedal-cleats, while blinding innocent people-watchers with their peacock-like costumes that if any tighter would let you know if they were circumcised or not. It’s enough already.

Maybe we can start some form of grassroots campaign to buy these “athletes” stationary bikes, thus allowing them to “train” in the privacy of their own homes, wearing pantyhose and leg-warmers for all I care. Let’s get ‘em off the streets, people.

On that note, I’m off to hop in the pool. Now, where’s that Speedo?

The Creepy Aspect Of Writing A Parenting Blog Back when I started this blog in 2006 my kids played a prominent role and that role has diminished as time has progressed. Now that they are 4 and 6, I feel like I’d be impinging on their personal space if I wrote in more than general terms about them. As babies, it really doesn’t matter—they all do the same stuff essentially. What really disturbed me and precipitated the removal of their photographs was the time when I followed a referral link to my blog that lead me to a creepy adult man in wearing a diaper. That was enough for me. Plus, with the grown-up content I write about comes a flood of nasty search engine terms generating blog traffic. Write one post with “penis” in the title (as I did) and it’s all over. Every perve with electricity will be stopping by at some point. So I don’t right about my kids much anymore (except in very general terms). My other problem is that after nearly 3 years on this blog (granted, the last year I was sporadically active at best) I’ve become bored shitless of parenting—as a subject, not a role in my life. Let’s face it, the topic has been covered pretty extensively. There are a lot of smart, funny posts out there that are well worth reading and I still do when I have time, but I’ve got very little left to say about parenting and a shitload more to say about everything else. Diaper-man probably did me a favor in curtailing my kid exposure on the blog because there are to too many nasty creatures with Internet access doing nasty things in dark rooms and …. you get the point. It’s too gross to elaborate on. My blog always had a little edge to it. I suspect that will only get worse, or better depending upon your point of view. Anyone with a sense of humor and a little perspective should be just fine.
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The Creepy Aspect Of Writing A Parenting Blog

Back when I started this blog in 2006 my kids played a prominent role and that role has diminished as time has progressed. Now that they are 4 and 6, I feel like I’d be impinging on their personal space if I wrote in more than general terms about them. As babies, it really doesn’t matter—they all do the same stuff essentially.

What really disturbed me and precipitated the removal of their photographs was the time when I followed a referral link to my blog that lead me to a creepy adult man in wearing a diaper. That was enough for me. Plus, with the grown-up content I write about comes a flood of nasty search engine terms generating blog traffic. Write one post with “penis” in the title (as I did) and it’s all over. Every perve with electricity will be stopping by at some point.

So I don’t right about my kids much anymore (except in very general terms). My other problem is that after nearly 3 years on this blog (granted, the last year I was sporadically active at best) I’ve become bored shitless of parenting—as a subject, not a role in my life. Let’s face it, the topic has been covered pretty extensively. There are a lot of smart, funny posts out there that are well worth reading and I still do when I have time, but I’ve got very little left to say about parenting and a shitload more to say about everything else.

Diaper-man probably did me a favor in curtailing my kid exposure on the blog because there are to too many nasty creatures with Internet access doing nasty things in dark rooms and …. you get the point. It’s too gross to elaborate on.

My blog always had a little edge to it. I suspect that will only get worse, or better depending upon your point of view. Anyone with a sense of humor and a little perspective should be just fine.