And Back To Chicks...

I am home safe. No major collateral damage to report. I am rested. I have dirt on my face, that I'm starting to think isn't dirt. My mouth tastes like a foot. and I am a Tic-Tac away from 200 pounds. I am man. Hear me sob.

This past weekend, I had the distinct privilege of camping out with 10 of my best buds. It didn't take very long for me to realize that I am living in a complete bubble. My normal existence is a true life fairy tale. I might as well be living in a Ginger Bread house, paved with Gumdrops, on a street lined with Candy Cane trees. My bed is soft, like Cotton Candy and it welcomes me like a warm, bosom. I am well fed and spoiled, like a fat cat that won't die. I am well dressed. I wear the finest of cottons and denim. My wardrobe is plentiful and clean; magically arranged by the Armoire Fairies in the middle of the night. I come and go as I please and I'm constantly greeted with kisses and hugs from the kind, Munchkin people that dwell in my castle. I live like a Prince, adored by his loyal subjects and revered by his kingdom.

My three revelations from the camping trip:

1) My Wife Buys Me Turkey Bacon For A Reason.
She loves me. We went through over 500 slices of real bacon in 2 days. I can feel my heartbeat in my neck and I can taste blood in the back of my throat. It hurts to breathe when I bend over to tie my shoes and I have experienced an altered state in which I have seen from the eyes of an ancient race of swine people. I am not a religious person but tonight I will pray to the lord, to give me back the 3 years of my life, I just flushed down the toilet. If you ever see a can of Bacon walking towards you, please walk to the other side of the street and for heaven's sake, do not look it straight in the eye. It will destroy your soul.

2) The More You Eat, The More You Shit.

Yes. This is true. Go figure. I was not aware that my body isn't hollow. I had assumed that no matter how many ribs I consumed, there would always be some sort of compartment for the food to settle in. This is not the case. It seems as though the food needs to have somewhere to go. When there is no more room for the food, it simply comes out of your ass. Not a situation conducive to a 200 yard walk to the bathroom. Have you ever heard the expression, "It's like trying to stuff 10 pounds of shit into a 5 pound bag"? Well, if you just do some simple arithmetic, you can calculate, (with fair accuracy) that it is impossible to stuff 200 lbs of BBQ into a 175 pound man. Bon Appetit.

3) The Older You Get, The More You Pee.

There is nothing more pathetic than ten grown men, sitting around a campfire, doing funnels of beer. Oh wait, there is something more pathetic. When those same ten men have bladders, weaker than that of a ninety year old woman in Depends. I'm not sure when it happened but apparently my bladder can't hold more than one beer at a time. Luckily, all of my friends have the same problem. If synchronized pissing were an Olympic sport, we'd have won Gold. Busby Berkeley would have been proud. Our campsite could have been an open casting call for the next Flomax commercial. If our campsite were a castle, we could have filled our own mote. I'm sure we drowned a family of possum that night. We're not proud of this.

I did a ton of reflecting this weekend. I thought about life and about how lucky I am. I thought to myself, "Why are all of your friends so damn hairy?" and "Do I smell my own breath?" These are the types of things a man ponders, when left alone in the woods. This is why we only go camping, once a year.

This past weekend, it was the possum that were Out-Numbered...

From Chicks To Dicks...

This post is for my buddy Rich. We love you man...

My life is like one big vaginal roller coaster ride.

If my life were an attraction at Disney World, it would be called, "Estrogen Mountain." Or perhaps, "It's a Small Ball World." There would be big headed, lovable characters like "Menstrual Mouse", "Whiny the Putang" and "Peeterless Pan" roaming the park, nagging people until they got a new Ipod, a Nintendo DS or one of those piece of shit FurBerries. By the way, have you seen these friggin FurBerries? They are these demented little, hybrid stuffed animals. I'm telling you, they are straight off the Island of Dr Moreau. Evil little creatures that fold up into a ball with a hard outer shell, like a fucking potato bug or something. But my kids want them, so it's cool. Anyway...

I am constantly surrounded by girly stuff. Sometimes I feel like I'm a pair of panties away from turning into a hairier version of the Little Mermaid. Just slap a pair of seashells on my tits and I'm finished. I need to man it up. I need to fight back. I need to...

Run away!

That's exactly what I'm gonna do. This weekend, as a matter of fact. I'm going on my annual "Dudes Only" camping trip. Once a year, a bunch of us sorry sacks, pick a place in the middle of nowhere and disappear. Most of us are married with kids. A high percentage of us have little girls. It's a pretty hard core sausage fest. If we were a movie, we'd be a Dick Flick. It's a weekend to take back your manhood and heal.

We sleep in tents and build fires. Sometimes we sleep in tents that catch on fire. We eat sausage, beef jerky and skirt steak. We drink Pabst Blue Ribbon from a can. We smoke cigars and stuff. And that's just for breakfast. We take to the river and battle nature. We shit in the woods and don't shower for days. Sometimes we don't even shit for days and shower in the woods. We don't care. It's our call. We have nicknames like Quato, Pooch, Grits, Spanish Rob, Angry Mike and Shit Leg. We talk about baseball and debate who's hotter, Valerie Bertinelli circa 1978 or Valerie Bertinelli circa 2009? We wear work boots with black socks and shorts and nobody says a damn thing. We listen to AC/DC and Lynyrd Skynyrd and sing out loud. Everyone carries a Leatherman Knife and no one ever uses it for anything. We smell like bug spray, smoke and burnt hair all weekend long. No one gets hurt that badly and no one complains. No judgement is passed.

I packed a case of canned bacon. That's 12 cans. Each can has 50 slices of bacon. That's 600 slices of canned bacon. Suck on that. What ever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Unless it kills you. I'll take my chances. I can think of worse ways to go.

We don't need to pack a suitcase and a carry on. We don't need to take a toiletry bag or a hair dryer. Actually one guy packs a toiletry bag and a hair dryer but he's kind of a clean freak. Whatever. It doesn't matter. It's our time. It's go time and it's now.

This weekend I will not be Out-Numbered...

Life Imitates Blog...

Do you ever feel like you're being Punk'd? Like Ashton Kutcher is following you around, smirking, waiting and ready to pounce? Well, life has a way of imitating art. Or in my case, blog...

In case you were wondering, that's my 6-year-old daughter and me in that picture. It's not an out of shape, hairy, white trash, down on his luck, ex-Chippendales dancer. I am casually enjoying my Father's Day, breakfast in bed. It consists of a bowl of soggy Rice Chex, a banana, a strawberry Pop Tart and a half-cup of warm water. Delicious! Kind of like a prison breakfast in the comfort of your own bed. The food was the same, except my daughter didn't serve me wearing a hair net.

My attire is bed casual, consisting of a brand, spanking new, teal colored, wool tie. The tie lies perfectly between my man-nipples and falls to just above my navel.

All in all, the perfect beginning to a perfect Father's Day. Courtesy of the amazing ladies in my life, that continually leave me feeling Out-Numbered...

They Got My Toe Charlie. They Got My Toe...

This post was originally written for the amazingly cool NYC Mama. You can check out her Celebrating Dad feature right here. I urge you. No, I absolutely implore you to check out her site. Happy Father's Day to all. Rock it.

I have to admit that I am terrible at stopping to smell the roses. I'm constantly on the go. I'm always stressed out. I'm like that proverbial Hamster in the wheel. I run and run but often get nowhere. There are so many missed opportunities in life and most of the time; you don't get a second chance. When you have kids, it's easy to get caught up in the rigmarole. As a parent, I find myself taking the shortcuts most of the time, to get things done. This is bad. I don't do this on purpose. I have become a product of my environment. I feel as if there are times that I don't pay enough attention to what's most important.

Father's Day is coming again. I don't feel like I deserve another "Kiss the Cook" apron. I can't accept a subscription to the beer of the month catalog in good conscience. I am not worthy of a "One Free Kiss" coupon. My two daughters show me unconditional love. They didn't choose me. They never take me for granted. It will be almost seven years since I held my baby daughter in my arms for the first time. It's hard to look back on that day and put it into words. Becoming a Dad changed my life. It made me recognize my own mortality. It taught me how to give love from the deepest place in my soul and how to accept it, just the same. Who would have thought that living with three females, would teach me what it means to be a man?

Family is the most important thing in the universe. It trumps everything. It is the Royal Straight Flush of life. Today I stopped to smell the roses... Kind of. What I found was something that shook me to the core. Aside from having feet that bare the resemblance to that of a family of frogs or some similar amphibious creature, I think I found life's meaning.

Both of my precious, beautiful and unique daughters, for better or for worse, have my toe. They have the exact same fucking toe. This is what being a Dad is all about. This is my Löwenbräu moment.

There are 34 toes in our house that will forever be... Out-Numbered.

Happy Father's Day!

Never Negotiate With Terrorists...

I am not a breakfast in bed type of guy. It's uncomfortable. It doesn't make any sense to me. It never has. Why the hell would anyone want to eat a stack of flapjacks and a pound of bacon, while lying horizontal under the covers? It's bad enough I find remnants of Goldfish crackers under my pillow. I don't need maple syrup stuck to my sheets. It also makes the room smell and it gives me a headache. Oh and there's no place to put the Orange Juice either. Please don't bother.

I don't carry a ton of cash on me. It's not my nature. I usually have less than $10 on my person at any given time. I'm also not allowed to use the ATM without my wife yelling at me. Maybe the two have something to do with each other. For whatever reason, please refrain from buying me any sort of money clip or wallet. I don't care if it has a silk screen of my favorite team's logo on it. Not interested.

I also don't wear a suit to work. Ever. As a matter of fact, I haven't worn a real suit since my Bar-Mitzvah, back in 1983. Baruch Atah Adon'tcare. There's no need to. I don't work in a bank and I don't make a ton of client calls. I wear jeans and a t-shirt most of the time. You don't need to be a mathematician to figure out that I don't need a new tie. Especially not a tie with Golf clubs on it. You know why? Because I don't play Golf anymore. You know why? Because I have kids.

I think plants are a pain in the ass. I used to have a bunch of them and then I realized that it made me feel like I was living in a damn jungle. A jungle that needed to be watered every other day... By me. I'm done with plants. Let someone else help with the whole oxygen thing. I'm too busy. So...With that being said; for heaven's sake do not bring me African Violets or some other little piece of greenery. I'll only wind up killing it. On purpose. Plant euthanasia but I'll make it look like a suicide.

Father's Day is fast approaching. This is a warning shot across the bow. Honey, get those little Munchkins in line and figure out your plan. I'm holding you personally responsible for any and every piece of crap that comes my way. Consider this a hostile situation. It's your call. Either talk to the terrorists or go by the book. In any case, here are my demands for Father's Day:

1) I want to sleep late.

Not like 8:03am late, with the kids singing Bah Bah Black Sheep, right outside the bedroom door, late but a respectable late. Let's say 10:00am. This would be acceptable.

2) I want to go out for breakfast.

I don't want lame ass Fruity Cheerios with regular milk. Just because that's what the kids can make by themselves, doesn't mean I want it for breakfast. Screw them. It's my day and I only get one shot. Besides, I'm Lactose intolerant and milk gives me Diarrhea. I have one word for you. IHOP.

3) I want at least one full hour at the Gym.

I never get to go and I will need to sweat off about 1000 calories after I stuff my fat, Father's Day face at IHOP. I'm doing it for you. This body doesn't sexy itself.

4) I want to watch TV.

I understand that it's not practical for me to watch TV for the entire day. I just want to watch one program of my choice... Uninterrupted. I choose Lucio Fulci's, 198o horror classic, City Of The Living Dead (aka The Gates of Hell). It might be best if you take the kids out for a bit. It's not age appropriate, for anyone really.

5) I want pepperoni and that three different color cheese assortment.

Don't play dumb. You know what I'm talking about. That cheese thing that you never let me buy. There's a yellow one, a white one and that pretty red one and they all have those fake nuts all over the outside. Looks like a giant cheese turd. I love that shit. Makes my mouth water. That will definitely give me Diarrhea as well but I don't care. It's Father's Day.

6) BBQ

Just let me do my thing. I'll pick the menu and do the grilling. I promise I won't sodomize a chicken with a beer can. Not this time, anyway. Don't you worry about a thing. I'll even throw in a plain, thin, chicken cutlet for ya. Maybe I'll even grill some Goldfish crackers for the Rugrats. I'll get it done, on my terms.

7) Beer, Vodka and more Beer.

I won't make an ass out of myself, I swear. Just don't count my drinks on this day. I promise I will drink responsibly. It's a Dad's birth right. I don't smoke cigars, so I need to make up for it on the back end. I might even spring for the good stuff. After all, your Dad will be there too. I need to impress. Can you say Schlitz?

8) Back rub

What? I've gone this far. I might as well throw it out there. No? OK. No back rub. I guess I can't have my three cheese assortment and eat it too.

You have until sundown to meet my demands. Or is it high noon? I always forget.

I'll tell you what. I'll give you a chance to pick what's behind door #2. I'd be fine with either choice but I'll leave it entirely up to you. You feel lucky, punk?

Drum roll please...

Behind door #2 just happens to be a full day's supply of hugs and kisses from my two beautiful angels and my hot, awesome Wifey. I don't need all of that other Hoo-Ha and gobbledygook. No sir, not I. I'm a simple man with simple needs.

Father's Day is the perfect day to be Out-Numbered...

Can I still get the back rub? Never mind.

What Would Cap Do?

I am a big fan of the Captain America comic book series. I have been since I was a kid. I have a tattoo of the Captain America Shield on my left shoulder.

The reason why I chose to permanently mark my precious, silky white skin with Captain America's Shield, was not as a tribute to Cap. No doubt, this alone might have been a worthy enough reason. It was more than that to me. It was a life long commitment to buying into Cap's philosophy. A philosophy built on a proud nation of heroes, past and present. A constant reminder to fight for what is right. To stick to my principles. To defend my beliefs, protect my family and help others, less fortunate than myself.

If all of this sounds like a crock of shit to you...

You'd be completely right.

Actually, I just think that the Cap shield is completely dope and I thought it would look awesome. Which it does. There is a point to all of this though.

Last weekend, I took my oldest daughter to pick up her new bike. Right across the street from the bicycle shop is the tattoo parlor where I get my ink. I've been wanting to make an appointment for quite some time, so I decided to drop in. I thought it would be cool to take my daughter with me and show her around. She has no problem with my tattoos. I've had ink since before she was born and I've added a bunch along the way. I've even got her name on my arm. I think she looks at me as a cool dad. At least that's what I thought. She sat with me while I discussed my next tattoo with one of the artists. When we left the shop, we had this little exchange...

Out-Numbered - So, what do you think about my idea for the new tattoo?

Six Year Old - It's OK. I guess.

Out-Numbered - What do you mean, you guess?

Six Year Old - It's fine.

Out-Numbered - Dude. I thought you liked my tattoos?

Six Year Old - I do.

Out-Numbered - Then what's the problem? I don't get it.

Six Year Old - Nothing Daddy.

Out-Numbered - Are you sure?

Six Year Old - I don't think you should get anymore tattoos.

Out-Numbered - Why?

Six Year Old - I just think you have enough.

Out-Numbered - Is that all?

Six Year Old - Kind of.

Out-Numbered - Sweet heart. C'mon. Tell me what you're thinking.

Six Year Old - I just don't want people to make fun of me.

Out-Numbered - What? Why would they make fun of you? Because of my tattoos?

Six Year Old - Yes.

Out-Numbered - You know what? I don't think anyone will make fun of you. I'll tell you what though. If they do, then they probably aren't worth paying attention to any way.

Six Year Old - Fine.

Out-Numbered - And I'll kick their butts.

Six Year Old - You're annoying.

Out-Numbered - Got it.

This kind of broke my heart. It's not like I'm Dennis Hopper, in Hoosiers, drunk off my ass, embarrassing the shit out of her in public. Or Harry Dean Stanton, from Pretty in Pink. I'm not the Jewish, Dennis Rodman. I don't have a pair of tits, tattooed on my neck or anything like that. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

But wait...

Fuck that shit!

Maybe that Captain America Shield on my shoulder, does stand for something. Maybe it's not just Fo' Sho'. You don't have to be a Super Hero to teach your kids to think for themselves. You certainly don't have to possess super human strength to set an example and you definitely don't need to ingest Super Soldier Serum to tell some punk ass, first grader, to step off.

I'm keeping that appointment to get my new tattoo. I'm going to show her that her Dad is the shizzle; With or without a tattoo of a metalic blue, BC Rich Bitch guitar, with an evil skull impaled on the neck.

Don't ask.

This Super Hero refuses to feel Out-Numbered...

My Bike Can Kick Your Bike's Ass...

Let's get right down to business, shall we?

I bought my oldest daughter a bad ass bike today. It is slick and fast and complicated. Buying a kid a bicycle is the most awesome thing a parent can do. It is their first step across the bridge to independence. When I think of my childhood, I think about Atari, Sid & Marty Kroft and my gold Ross bike with the black banana seat. I've had my current set of grown up wheels for about three years now. A black, two door, Jeep Wrangler. I've put only 10,000 miles on it. I'm pretty sure I put a solid 50,000 on my Ross between the years 1977 - 1981.

Where we live now is really close to where I grew up as a kid. Amazingly enough, I was able to purchase my kid's new ride at the exact same establishment that I bought my Ross back in 1977. That made the whole experience quite surreal for me but it was pretty damn cool to walk in there and see the expression on her face when she got a glimpse of all the Bikes. I'm not sure of the origin of the expression, "Like a kid in a candy store". But I think I'm gonna write a letter to my local congressman and request a change. I've seen my kid in a candy store and it's not that big a deal. Now, my kid in a bike store was pretty off the hook.

Here is the tale of the Tape:

'09 Diamondback Girl's Impression

Price: $194.99

Color: Teal

Seat: Kid's Gel Saddle

Helmet: Bell Trigger '09

Brakes: Rear linear-pull brake + coaster brake.

Accessories: SuperTex vinyl travel bag

Bottom Line: Has already crashed into a pole and seemed to hold it's own.

'77 Ross Barracuda

Price: $68

Color: Goldish

Seat: Banana, Bitch!

Helmet: Parents didn't give a shit back then or were just plain stupid.

Brakes: You can't do a proper skid out and leave a tire mark with wuss handbrakes.

Accessories: Dumb ass pole / flag attached to back of banana seat, if your parents had cash.

Bottom Line: This bike would survive a nuclear holocaust and still get me to school in the morning.

So our first bikes are very different on the outside. I guess that's not what's important. There's always gonna be some punk ass that parks his Green Machine, right next to your shitty Big Wheel. I really don't care if her Bike can kick my Bike's ass. The smile she had on her face, right before she smacked into that pole at the school yard was the exact same one I had back in 1977.

Being Out-Numbered by your daughter and her '09 Diamondback Girl's Impression... Priceless.

All Aboard The Train To Bonerville…

There are two different types of people in this world. No, wait. That's not right. There are three different types of people in this world. Shit, hold up a sec. Ok, there are, as I see it, four different types of people in this crazy world we live in. Each and every one of us falls into one of these four categories.

They register as follows:

Type 1

A person who goes for a massage and leaves their underwear on.

Type 2

A person who goes for a massage and wears no underwear.

Type 3

A person who goes for a massage and leaves their underwear on but is completely comfortable lying both face up and face down.

Type 4

A person, who goes for a massage, leaves their underwear on and refuses to lie face up. This person remains face down for the duration of the massage.

Now, you are probably thinking to yourself, isn't there a Type 5? What about the person that goes for a massage and wears no underwear but remains face down for the duration of the massage? Well, wise ass, I've done the fucking research, no? I'm assuming that if this person is comfortable enough to go commando into the session, than he or she will not have any reservations about turning "happy side" up.

Shall we proceed?

So I am NOT a massage person. Never have been. I just don't feel comfortable. Don't get me wrong. I like to be touched. I'm not a total wacko or a Haptephobe or anything like that. I actually love the occasional back rub from my wife. As a matter of fact, my six year old daughter is getting pretty good at the back rub herself. One would think I am the perfect candidate for a professional massage. I am in a high stress occupation. I have two small, annoying children and my body is in the chronological shape of an 87-year-old woman. I should be getting lubed up every week by a hairless, hard body, manly man named Sven and his sister Gretchen.

I don’t know what it is. During my first massage, I absolutely fell in love with the spa aura and subsequent attire. Most men would take no issue with a terrycloth robe that covers only one third of your nut sack. There is also nothing more comfortable than sporting matching terrycloth slippers that make you feel like you should be cooking oatmeal cookies and soaking your dentures, while watching The Rockford Files. Then there is the awesome assortment of herbal teas and medicinal aromatherapy, that makes me feel like I’ve checked into an insane asylum for Deadheads. What about that extremely awkward moment, when the girl upfront asks you to make a choice, that will basically label you, either a homophobic asshole or a guy who is a little too comfortable with his own sexuality. In Husband Land, we like to call this a “No Win” situation.

I will admit, that about ten years ago, I did have a pretty traumatizing experience during my first massage. It wasn’t the leprechaun-sized loincloth or even the dope, granny kicks. It was much more awkward than that. It could have been the culmination of two things. I did not wear any underwear and I had chosen to be worked on by a female. What I am about to reveal next, is very personal and should probably be filed under the “Don’t Blog About It” category but I am on a flight home from vacation. I’ve had two Bloody Marys in the airport and two Vodka Rockstars on the plane. If this baby goes down, I must secure my legacy. If my computer becomes the black box that Bloggers search for and analyze for decades, I want to do this right…

Waiting to meet your masseuse, for the first time, in your little man-tutu is nothing less than dehumanizing. It is like an arranged marriage of sorts. You really don’t get to pick and choose. Lot’s of things go through a man’s brain in that little, hippy purgatory of a waiting room. "What will she look like? Will she be hot? Will I get a boner? How do I not get a boner? What do I do if I get a boner? Is it normal to get a boner? Thank goodness I chose a female, just in case I get a boner. This tiny, dainty, munchkin robe might make my boner look huge. Cool. Oh crap, here she comes…"

She was stunning. Like a young Clair Huxtable from The Cosby Show, season one. She wore black spandex pants and a tight fitted tee. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Damn! Why didn’t I wear my underwear? She took me into my room and told me to remove my robe and lie face down. Face down is good. How is a guy supposed to relax when he’s naked on a table, about to be rubbed by Clair Huxtable, with only a sheet to separate his junk from the latter? This is about when I started to panic. I don’t remember a hell of a lot from that first part of the massage. She tried to engage in some small talk but I don’t recall any part of it. Then came the moment that made me start to sweat. “Why don’t you turn over and lie face up so I can work on your front?” “Oh shit. I’m totally screwed. I’m going to get a boner like a 14-year-old kid and she’s going to think I’m a total pervert. Damn you, Penis!”

I can imagine that all of the female readers are pretty disgusted right about now but it’s really friggin hard (no pun) to control the male libido. Not much changes for us, between the ages of 15 and 35. Men are certainly inferior creatures and we are aware of this.

So there I was, on my back, under the covers. My brain was working overtime, swimming upstream in a sea of thoughts. I was doing everything I could to fight the inevitable. C’mon man, think un-sexy thoughts. Lawrence Taylor, Ass Cancer, Grandma’s bunions, Mom in the shower, cafeteria ladies in hairnets, Dad in the shower, dog shit on a stick, the movie: The Day After with Jason Robards, Curry, spoiled lobster sitting in the sun, Sally Field. To make matters worse, she turned on an oscillating fan to cool the room a bit. This fan was placed two feet from the foot of the massage table. You sank my Battle Ship! This was the perfect storm.

Suffice it to say, you don’t need to be a rocket scientist to figure out the pathetic end to this story.

Since that day, I have been a genuine, no holds barred, Type 4. I do not trust my environment or myself. I do not leave anything to chance. Call me prudish. I don’t care.

But then…

I went for a massage on my vacation this past week. I did not expect to deviate from my Type 4 categorization. I sheepishly crept into the waiting room with my tighty whities, securely intact and my ego, fragile and brittle. Then like a bright light from heaven, appeared my angel. She was perfect. A dead ringer for the incredibly unattractive, Ruth Buzzi. The train to Bonerville was rolling out of the station and yours truly did not have a ticket.

I am proud to say that on this day, Ruth Buzzi converted me to a proud Type 3. I will never feel Out-Numbered at the Spa again.

Who Has It Better: Mom Or Dad?

You can also find the following Out-Numbered post at that crazy chick site: Momversation

This is a trick question. I don't trust you Momversation, not as far as I can throw your virtual ass. The last time I wrote a guest blog here, was for the "A Guy's Turn: What Bugs You About Your Spouse?" Momversation. That one didn't exactly work in my favor. I'm actually at the Ritz Carlton in an undisclosed location right now with my wife. I am rubbing her feet, still trying to make amends. But if I don't speak out on behalf of all the fat, lazy, good for nothing, Dads out there, who the heck will? That is why I have chosen once again, not so wisely, to play the role of Martyr. I give to you ever so reluctantly...

Who Has It Better: Mom Or Dad?

If you are married and you have kids, then you have had this argument. If you haven't, then your child was just born this past week or sleeps ten hours a night and can change his or her own diaper, throw their own Pop Tarts in the toaster and doesn't talk... ever.

I love my wife. I love my kids. My wife has had more positive influences on me than I can ever acknowledge in any blog. My kids are the light of my life. These two little pissers have made me into the man that I am today. Not a second goes by that I don't look over my shoulder to make sure Ashton Kutcher isn't Punking my sorry ass. That's how lucky I am to have the three of them. But this parenting thing isn't always a cakewalk. As a matter of fact, there are times when it sucks the big one. I mean let's face it; kids can be super annoying. "I want milky.” "Get me a cookie." "Let me out of the closet, it's dark in here." I mean, who can stand it after awhile?

Before my wife and I had kids, we didn't fight at all. I can't think of one thing we would ever argue about. Maybe once in awhile we'd disagree on which movie to see or what restaurant to eat at. Oh wait, I remember one Sunday I wanted to sleep late but she wanted to go out for breakfast. That could have been grounds for divorce I tell ya but that was pretty much it. We were living the dream and we had no friggin clue how good we had it.

Then... BAM! We have two kids and a list of reasons why I suck and how she does all the work. I can't tell you how many times my wife has told me how easy I have it. I mean after all, she stays home with the kids all day. She does the shopping, cooks the meals, and walks up and down the stairs all day doing laundry. It never ends and apparently, neither does her resentment towards my lazy ass. To be honest, we still don't fight about a heck of a lot but there is one thing that we argue about constantly. What is it?

Who gets to sleep late on the weekend?

This is the bane of our existence as parents. It is an argument that no one wins, EVER. Mention the topic in casual conversation and we lose our shit. The reason is simple. The very question, whom gets to sleep late on the weekend, holds the answer to the greater question of which we are discussing here. Who Has It Better: Mom Or Dad? If I say she deserves to sleep late on the weekend then I am admitting that my week at work was not that difficult. If she caves and decides to let me sleep late on the weekend, then she is succumbing to the fact that her week with the kids was a breeze. Mexican Standoff.

I would never say this to my wife but I believe the argument has no right answer. Both her opinions and mine are completely subjective. I love my job. I work with great people in a really fun environment. I have Guitar Hero, a Foos Ball table and a friggin beer tap in my office for shit's sake. What do I have to complain about, right? I go to parties, client dinners, I meet celebrities from time to time. I have season tickets to my favorite Hockey team. I do have to get up at 6am every day, haul my tired ass onto the train and sometimes don't get home until all hours of the night. I own my own business so I'm responsible for the well being of a ton of people on a day-to-day basis. Throw into the mix that it's the worst economy we've seen in our lifetime and it all adds up to STRESS! Quite frankly it's a stress I don't even want my wife and kids to understand.

I suppose I have it pretty good compared to my wife and I'm not being sarcastic. I've taken care of our kids and it isn't pretty. The last time I was in charge, I wound up with a broken toe and shit all over my finger. She does more in a day than most people do in a week but there's one thing that she has that I don't have and it makes her the luckiest person in the world. She gets to spend quality time with my kids. Not just, "How was your day?" kind of time. Real honest to goodness, get to know them, kind of time.

Being a stay at home mom is tough but I think it's tougher for a working dad to shoulder the tremendous guilt he feels when he has to tip toe out of the house early in the morning before the kids are awake. There's nothing worse than being stuck at work at 10pm and knowing that you've missed another opportunity to read your baby girl a bedtime story. Every time I miss a dance recital or a music class, a piece of my heart tears away. There's an old saying that you'd know if you were a Golfer. It goes like this: "A bad day of Golf is better than a good day at work." I believe the same thing applies to me with my kids. I don't care how annoying they are or how much shit I get on my finger when I'm changing diapers. I always know, that for every accidental kick in the nuts I get from my two year old, there is a smile and an "I love you Daddy", waiting right around the corner.

My wife is finally going back to work in September, so the landscape will drastically change. You know what they say, "Be careful what you wish for..." For right now though, the answer is crystal clear. Mom has the better deal. Sorry Moms, you're all Out-Numbered on this one...