Tuesday, June 29, 2010


Today there will be...

No more fighting about which pretty dress to wear.

No more arguing about which comes first, Sponge Bob or brushing your teeth.

No more pleading for last minute trips to the potty.

No more missing the train.

No more wrestling with car seats.

No more Jonas Brothers > Howard Stern.

No more ponytails.

No more sunscreen application.

No more wiping boogers on the back of my leather seats.

No more "I HATE YOU!" or "YOU'RE SO MEAN!" before 7am.

Today I take my freedom back.

I proclaim it like George Michael.

I will wear it proudly, like Rupaul would don a tube top and a pair of pink hot pants.

I will stake my flag of manhood in the ground like a suburban Iwo Jima.

Today the kids go to Camp.

Ahhhh sweet camp, how I love thee.

Camp... Home of lice infested follicles, wort riddled little fingers and toes and bathing suits soaked with urine. You have rescued me. You have plucked my soul from the dark and hopeless vortex of parenthood and fireman's carried it back to this fleshy vessel of self that it once inhabited.

Camp, you complete me.

You had me at "$4,000? what are you fucking nuts?"

How could I have measured the importance of your arrival. What a gross miscalculation I have made. I apologize for balking at the cost of your services. I am ashamed but grateful. I feel humbled to kneel at your feet.

You are the Messiah of summer.

The little yellow bus makes it's rounds like the angel of death, claiming all of the neighborhood's first born children.

It shuttles them to a summer wonderland, filled with dirt and tether ball courts. They run free without leashes, like a giant dog park for kids.

They eat $4,000 cheese sandwiches and Italian Ices.

They sing songs that make no sense. They learn how to make houses out of Popsicle sticks.

They see other kid's wieners, big and small.

Camp builds character.

Camp saves lives. Our lives.

Camp gives parents their freedom back.

48 days of dignity.


Friday, June 25, 2010

Tissues On The Train...

Somewhere but not here...

Out-Numbered - I think this is your room.

Daughter - 238 right?

Out-Numbered - That's what the paper says.

Daughter - Where's the key?

Out-Numbered - I thought you took it.

Daughter - No Dad, you were supposed to take it.

Out-Numbered - I'll call your Mother. Maybe she has it.

Daughter - Dad! I can't believe you.

Out-Numbered - I'm just kidding baby. I have it right here.

Daughter - Dad. You're so annoying.

Out-Numbered - Here. Open the door already. This duffel bag weighs a ton.

Daughter - One minute.

Out-Numbered - Jeez. How many hair dryers do you have in here?

Daughter - Stop it.

She opens the door. The room is empty except for two single beds on either side, a small three draw dresser at the foot of each bed and a large open closet that goes from floor to ceiling. It smells like 1988. I see my daughter's face and she seems a bit tentative.

Out-Numbered - What?

Daughter - Nothing.

Out-Numbered - What's wrong?

Daughter - Nothing.

Out-Numbered - I know that look. It means you're thinking one of two things.

Daughter - Oh yea? What would those be?

Out-Numbered - You're either thinking, "how the hell am I gonna fit all of my clothes in that tiny dresser... OR... "Where is the bathroom?"

Silence. I see her eyes well up with tears. She tries to look away.

Out-Numbered - Baby, what's the matter?

She starts to cry. I put my arms around her.

Out-Numbered - It's OK pal. It's OK.

Daughter - I don't think I want to be here.

Out-Numbered - Don't be silly baby. You've been looking forward to this forever. Why the sudden change of heart?

Daughter - I don't know. The room is so small. There's no bathroom in here. I don't know where I'm gonna put all my clothes.

Out-Numbered - HA! I knew it.

Daughter - Dad, stop it. I'm serious.

We both sit down on the bed on the right side of the room.

Out-Numbered - It's not that bad sweetheart. Look at the bright side.

Daughter - What?

Out-Numbered - You just got to pick which bed you want.

Daughter - Great. Like it makes a difference.

Out-Numbered - I'm teasing. You still can't take a joke.

Daughter - I'm serious.

Out-Numbered - Can I tell you something?

Daughter - Not if you're going to be stupid.

Out-Numbered - Give me some credit over here.

Daughter - Fine.

Out-Numbered - I know you think I'm like 1,000 years old and I embarrass you in front of your friends but it wasn't that long ago that my parents dropped me off at college.

Daughter - That was like 50 years ago.

Out-Numbered - 32. It was 32 years ago, smart ass.

Daughter - I'm just kidding Dad. You still can't take a joke.

Out-Numbered - Good one.

I hand her a tissue from my front pocket. I had been saving it for myself.

Out-Numbered - What I was going to say is... I know it's not really the size of the room or the bathroom. It's OK to feel scared. You're starting over. You're away from home for the first time. I felt the same way and I remember it didn't hit me until I walked into my dorm room. It wasn't real until my parents walked out the door.

Daughter - It's different for a girl.

Out-Numbered - Maybe a little bit but trust me when I say, I know what you're feeling. Do you remember when you were just a little girl? I used to say to you, "You don't have to tell me everything but you can tell me anything."

Daughter - Yes. You would tell me that like every day.

Out-Numbered - Well I'm gonna tell you something right now. I didn't want to say it because I didn't want to start crying like a baby, in front of my baby.

Daughter - Please don't start crying.

Out-Numbered - I'll try my hardest. I promise. I'm scared too.

Daughter - What do you mean?

Out-Numbered - I'm terrified.

Daughter - Why?

Out-Numbered - I'm terrified because I don't want to walk out that door and leave you here. I'm terrified because I haven't been without you for more than a week at a time. I'm terrified because I know you're terrified that I'm terrified.

Daughter - Dad that was like five terrifieds. I think it's a world's record.

Out-Numbered - Hey, now I'm trying to be serious here.

Daughter - Sorry.

Out-Numbered - All I'm trying to say is that it's normal to feel scared about this. You're doing something for the first time. You're not a little kid any more and that's just crazy to me. I'm so proud of you for choosing this school. I'm just blown away by the woman you've become and I know that you'll do more than just fine because you're so much better than me at this stuff and if I was able to do it 50 years ago, than you my dear, are going rock this thing.

Daughter - I guess so.

Out-Numbered - This isn't a guessing game baby. I know so.

Daughter - Thanks Dad.

Out-Numbered - I love you baby. You're gonna love college. Best time of your life. Soak it up. Embrace the day. Carpe Diem!

Daughter - What the hell does that mean?

Out-Numbered - Carpe Diem means Seize the day. Robin Williams made it up.

Daughter - Who is she?

Out-Numbered - She? C'mon. Mork from Ork?


Out-Numbered - Forget it.

Daughter - Where's Mom?

Out-Numbered - Who knows? She went to the school store to get your sister a sweatshirt or something.

Daughter - I feel bad for her.

Out-Numbered - Your sister? Why is that?

Daughter - Because she has to deal with you all by herself now.

Out-Numbered - You know you'll miss me.

Daughter - Maybe a little.

Out-Numbered - You know what else you're gonna miss?

Daughter - Your bald head and your lame jokes?

Out-Numbered - No, dummy.

Daughter - What?

Out-Numbered - T-H-E ....... TICKLE MONSTER!!!!!!

I tickle her like I did when she was a kid. She still has the same laugh. I close my eyes and pretend we're on the den floor. She's 8 years old again.


Sometimes when I'm tired at the end of the day, I daydream on the train ride home.

My baby girl is turning 8 this summer. I want to freeze her and make the time stop. I want to keep her just like she is now.



Naive to the atrocities of the world that exist outside of our suburban bubble.

She's gonna leave one day and I can't stop her. I have to live in the moment. In the second.

Cryogenics is not the most practical of solutions.

Sometimes the daydreams are vivid, like a Neil Simon play yet to be written. I always cry at Neil Simon plays.

Why do I always have tissues in my daydreams but never when I'm on the train?

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Rocky Road Reprieve...

Last week was a tough week. It started with me having some minor surgery.

Skin Cancer.

My shoulder looked like a pizza. 30 stitches and it just missed my Chargers Lightening Bolt tattoo. Thank Goodness.

Kids, use your sunscreen. I'm not fucking around either.

I had to miss a couple of days of work and take it easy.


I rarely associate the word easy with being a parent.

As scary and uncomfortable as the surgery was, the thought that kept running through my head was...

"Man, this is nice. It's air conditioned, it's quiet, people are listening to me and there are no kids around."

There was even a U2 mix tape playing. I love U2.

It's truly a sad state of affairs when you view a trip to the surgeon as a small getaway. I mean, they took a chunk of flesh out of my shoulder and left me looking like the *Jewish Frankenstein but I felt like I was at an outpatient Sandals.


I was pretty out of it that night and still in a bunch of pain. All I wanted to do was hit my bed. My oldest daughter knew I was having something done but she didn't know about the cancer part. I was half expecting some sympathy or at least some understanding when she got home from school. I was gonna milk it for all it was worth. I had surgery God dammit and I wanted people to do stuff for me. I wanted my kids to rub my feet. I wanted them to let me watch Giada in peace. I wanted to poop without interruption.

Instead, my daughter came home and asked me to play handball with her. Yo! I'm laying on the couch, shirtless, wrapped in gauze and turning a whiter shade of pale. What the fuck? And also, what 7 year old girl wants to play handball? What is this, Brooklyn circa 1958? Why don't you go to your room and listen to some Sha Na Na on your damn Ipod.

"No baby. I can't play handball with you. Daddy isn't allowed to move his arm around right now."

"You're so mean!"

Great. Good to know I can't even play the cancer card on my daughter. Tough love I suppose...

The next day, I still had to take my kids to school in the morning. My wife was kind enough to get the little one dressed and the older one out of bed. My plan was to wrangle them into the car and take it slow.

I got my older one to school with no problem, despite her still harboring an intense resentment toward me for passing on handball.

When I arrived at my daughter's Pre-School, I was able to trick her into climbing out of the car on her own. I promised her she could walk on the curb in the parking lot. She thinks it's a balance beam. This is usually no problem but today, because I was a lame ass weakling, she was carrying her knapsack on her back and it was pretty heavy. She didn't get two steps before...


Face plant right into the cement.

I knew she was gonna come up bloody. She's too little to know about the whole. put your hands down when you're falling thing.

I just scooped her up without thinking and ran her into the school, calling for ice and towels like a crazed lunatic.

Blood. Lots of blood. I don't do well with blood.

I checked her teeth.

Still there.

That's good.

Ow, my fucking shoulder. Not good.

I sat with her for an hour on the floor of the school, holding multiple ice pops on her mangled, fat lip. I could feel her little heart racing and her body shaking. I was shaking too. Her little friends circled around us like cockroaches and asked 10,000 questions. This was mind numbingly annoying but really sweet. It kept her mind off of her fat lip and for that, I was grateful.

I walked out of there exhausted and it was only 9am.

Not taking it easy.

The next night, I thought it would be great if we all went out for an early dinner as a family. There's a pretty good BBQ place in the neighborhood and for some reason it seemed like a good idea.

It always seems like a good idea at first.

It only took about 8 minutes to turn into a total disaster.

Aside from my Pork Chop tasting like an ass, filled with sand, my kids were driving me up the wall. The whining and the complaining and the fighting and the fidgeting. We are that family of idiots.

So I pick up my 3 year old.


Ow, my fucking shoulder. Not good.

And I whisk her outside for the remainder of the meal.

I'd had enough. I was supposed to be taking care of myself and I hadn't stopped for a minute. This isn't what the Doctor ordered at all. We all piled into the car and headed home. On the way, I turned to my wife and said...

Me - "I want Carvel."

Wife - "You want to bring the kids for ice cream?"

Me - "No. I want to bring me for ice cream."

Wife - "Now?"

Me - "Yes."

Wife - "OK then."

So we made a pit stop at the local Carvel.

Man, this has got to be the only place in the universe that never changes. You'd think that maybe Cookie Puss would have evolved a bit. Nope. It's all the same and it makes me happy. I got out of the car, by myself and purchased the biggest motherfucking ice cream cone I could get.

We drove home and my family got out of the car.

I stayed behind.


In the car.

Eating ice cream.

While my kids played handball in the driveway...

*Even though Frankenstein sounds like a Jewish name, I'm pretty sure it's not. I believe he was Episcopalian.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Conversations With John Stamos...

I have this recurring nightmare. It's a pretty classic anxiety / control dream.

I'm back in college wandering the halls and it's finals week. I am experiencing a complete loss of time. I have this terrible realization that I am completely unprepared for my exams and that I haven't been to class in months. I can't find the exam room and I'm not even sure of my class schedule. My vision is blurry. I am completely confused.

Even though this might be symbolic for other things going on in my waking life, ironically it's pretty close to how college went for me.

This dream is a good analogy for parenting.

There are times when I am completely confused, unprepared and my vision is extremely blurry.

The other evening while watching Full House with my kids.

7 Year Old - Do we know anyone that had a baby that died?

Out-Numbered - What? Why do you ask that?

7 Year Old - I heard someone talking about it.

Out-Numbered - What do you mean, died?

7 Year Old - Like do you know anyone who was going to have a baby but it died before it came out?

Out-Numbered - You mean a miscarriage?

7 Year Old - What's a miscarriage?

Out-Numbered - Um, that's when something goes wrong when a woman is pregnant and the baby dies before it's born.

7 Year Old - Do you know anyone that had a miscarriage?

Out-Numbered - Yes.

7 Year Old - Who?

Out-Numbered - Well, I don't think we should talk about anyone's business but our own.

7 Year Old - How come?

Out-Numbered - Because they might not want to talk about it and it's very private.

7 Year Old - Why?

Out-Numbered - Because it's painful.

7 Year Old - It hurts.

Out-Numbered - I mean it's painful for someone to talk about it.

7 Year Old - Why?

Out-Numbered - Because it would probably make them sad to think about it.

7 Year Old - Did Mommy have a miscarriage?

Out-Numbered - Yes she did.

7 Year Old - REALLY? Whoa! When?

Out-Numbered - Before your sister was born.

7 Year Old - Did I die?

Out-Numbered - What do you think?

7 Year Old - No?

Out-Numbered - No.

7 Year Old - Where you sad?

Out-Numbered - Of course I was sad.

7 Year Old - Was Mommy sad?

Out-Numbered - Very sad.

7 Year Old - Did you cry?

Out-Numbered - I don't think so.

7 Year Old - How come you didn't cry?

Out-Numbered - Because I knew it was God's way of telling us that the baby wasn't healthy and it wasn't ready to be here with us.

7 Year Old - Did Mommy cry?

Out-Numbered - Yes.

7 Year Old - Did it hurt?

Out-Numbered - Probably but you would have to ask Mommy.

7 Year Old - How did she know the baby died?

Out-Numbered - Because when she went to the Doctor, it wasn't moving anymore and they didn't hear the baby's heart beating.

7 Year Old - How did they get the baby out?

Out-Numbered - They use a special machine.

7 Year Old - Does that hurt?

Out-Numbered - I'm not sure.

7 Year Old - What kind of machine?

Out-Numbered - It's kind of like a special vacuum cleaner.

7 Year Old - Does it go in Mommy's vagina?

Out-Numbered - I think so.

7 Year Old - Ewww.

Out-Numbered - You know what though?

7 Year Old - What?

Out-Numbered - Everything happens for a reason.

7 Year Old - What does that mean?

Out-Numbered - It means that your Mother and I were very sad that it happened but if it didn't happen, we would never have had your little sister.

7 Year Old - That's true. She is annoying though.

Out-Numbered - So are you.

7 Year Old - How old do you think Uncle Jesse was when they made Full House?

Out-Numbered - You mean John Stamos?

7 Year Old - The handsome one.

Out-Numbered - John Stamos. I have no idea. Maybe 25?

7 Year Old - Whoa. He was old. He doesn't look old.

Out-Numbered - Do I look old?

7 Year Old - Yes.

Out-Numbered - Thanks.

7 Year Old - Your welcome.

Someone please pinch me...

Monday, June 14, 2010

She's Like Me...

My wife and I have an ongoing debate about who our oldest daughter takes after.

Physically it's a no brainer.

My wife is stunningly beautiful; or as my 3 year old would say, "stumming". She has long dark hair, eyes as dark as a moonless sky and she carries herself with the poise of a runway model.

She wins that one.

Temperament however, is the real point of contention.

My daughter is short on patience. She gets frustrated very easily and she likes to yell.

A lot.

The two of them fight constantly about everything under the sun. They fight about clothing. They spar about food. They bicker about homework. They even argue about arguing.

They seem to feed off of each other.

Sometimes I think they should open a button pushing business.

I've heard this is pretty normal with mothers and daughters. I hear about it all the time from friends that witness the same occurrence. I've watched a lot of hockey over the years and as a result, I've learned to get out of the way. It's easy to see that when you try and break up a scuffle, it's more than likely, you're going to get punched in the face.

Occupational hazard I suppose.

Even though the fighting makes it a bit tense from time to time, we have a pretty good rhythm in the house and it's clear that we all adore one another. Most of the time.

When it comes to the similarities between my daughter and myself, it becomes a bit more complicated in some areas.

There are a few things that are painstakingly obvious.

We both love to be the center of attention. No spotlight is too bright. No stage too big.

We are both silly. We love to goof around. We love to ham it up.

We both have a very short attention span. We're pretty smart but we have trouble sticking with one thing for too long. We use boredom as an excuse but it's deeper than that.

Neither of us know how to listen. We love to talk but we hate to listen. We're really good at making you think we're listening but we're really just thinking about talking.

We are both control freaks. We are truly convinced that no one can do anything as well as we can. We qualify this as leadership.

As a parent, there is the selfish part of me that wants my kid to grow up to be just like her Dad.

Then there is the part of me that is terrified of my baby girl inheriting all of my shit.

The way I see it, most of it is poison.

Over the years, I have come to discover that I am broken. Broken to the point of which I thought I could not be fixed. The kind of broken that you can only see from the inside. All of the spotlights, all of the silliness, all the goofing around and all of the leadership...

All just decoys.

Impostors, masquerading as something else to hide the brokenness underneath it all.

So to see myself, any part of myself, festering in my little baby, makes me weary.

I've wrestled with my demons. I've done my best to protect the ones I love from them.

I've been sick but I didn't think I was contagious.

My traits are not the cause of my pain. They are only a symptom.

I am not a Doctor. My daughter is not my patient and this is far from a diagnosis.

Most parents can lovingly stare into their child's eyes and take pride in seeing a bit of themselves staring back at them.

I just get scared.

I've been doing a shitload of demon slaying as of late and for now I seem to be winning the battle.

As soon as I build the moat to protect my own castle, I'll turn my attention to protecting the princess from the demons that inevitably will try to scale those castle walls...

I hope she takes after her mother...

Friday, June 11, 2010

The Father's Day Boutique Can Blow Me...

THIS is my Father's Day post.

I love my kids more than a 58 year old, white male, with a micro sized wiener loves his new Corvette.

I love my kids more than a dog loves the smell of his own shit.

I love my kids more than Joanie loved Chachi.

But God dammit, I hate that fucking Father's Day boutique.

Does anyone know what I'm talking about?


The Father's Day boutique is basically a shitty little indoor garage sale that takes place in elementary schools all over the world. OK, maybe just on Long Island. I can't say for sure. Anyway, they had it when I was a kid and they have it now.

What happens is right before Father's Day, the school sets up a bunch of tables and garnishes them with what seems to be a bunch of items that were made in China but not good enough to make it to the 99 cents store.

The worst part of this horrible tradition is that my kid comes to me with pretty much the sweetest smile you've ever seen and says...

Daughter - "Daaaaaadddddy. You know what today is?"

Out-Numbered - "No"

Daughter - "Today is the Faaaaattthhheeerrrrssss Day Boutique."


Out-Numbered - "Oh. Awesome."

Daughter - "Yes. Mommy gave me $10."

$10? That's all I'm worth? What the fuck?

Out-Numbered - "Is that enough?"

Daughter - "I think so. It's for you and Pop Pop."

$10 for Me AND Pop Pop? Screw Pop Pop. That's bullshit.

Out-Numbered - "Are you sure you don't need anymore money?"

Daughter - "No I'm good."

Yeah. You're good. You're not the one that has to wear a cheap ass, wool tie in the middle of the fucking summer. You're not the one that needs to walk down 6th Ave with a paper towel, constantly wiping your neck sweat on the way to work.

Out-Numbered - "OK great!"

And off she goes...

Now these gifts are cyclical and they all suck. You start to realize this when they begin repeating themselves. In the past, I have been given...

A #1 Dad Coffee Mug

A #1 Dad Key Chain

A Velcro Mets Wallet

A #1 Dad Money Clip

A #1 Dad Glow In The Dark Pencil

A Wool Tie

A #1 Dad Key Chain. Again.

I even think I got an I LOVE DAD Snow Globe one year.

What sick bastard in China makes an I LOVE DAD Snow Globe.

It's just wrong.

So I wait. I wait for next Sunday to come and if my calculations are correct, the spinning wheel of Father's Day Boutique Death, will give forth unto me...

Yet another #1 Dad Coffee Mug.


Oh and you can bet that my sweet wife will be mocking me the entire time. Snickering with jubilant glee.

Go ahead my love. Laugh all you want.

But remember.

Pay back's a bitch.

Eleven months from now I will scornfully place a $10 bill in our precious little daughter's hand and tell her to bring you home a beautiful plastic rose.

Or perhaps a sparkling, faux gold necklace with an even more faux green gem, set perfectly off center.

Or maybe, just maybe I will encourage her to pick out the shiniest of all snow globes. And this snow globe will profess...


And nothing says Happy Mother's Day, like a snow globe...

P.S. In the spirit of complete transparency, I thought Father's Day was this Sunday and that is why I wrote this post last night. My wife made me aware of the real date and of the fact that I am a complete and utter Jackass. Because of this, I have changed one of the lines to make it seem as though I knew it was next Sunday. As if anyone cares...

Monday, June 7, 2010

I Don't Need No Stinking Boy...

I have two daughters and one wife.

That is why this blog is called Out-Numbered.

Get it?

I want to make something perfectly clear to all of the people, past, present or future that will inevitably ask my wife and I if we're going to try for a boy.


We are 100%, completely and utterly content with what we have. We consider ourselves blessed to have had two healthy, beautiful girls that fill our lives with love, laughter and hope.

We also can't imagine having another child.

These two healthy, beautiful girls that fill our lives with love, laughter and hope are also a colossal pain in the rump roast. We'd have to be out of our collective tree to even consider another child.

Let alone a boy.

When our first daughter was born, I hadn't even considered the fact that we might be having a girl. I didn't think it was possible. I'm not sure why my brain worked that way.

I remember the day she was born, one of my friends said to me...

"Dude, when you have a boy, you only have to worry about one dick. When you have a girl, you have to worry about 100 dicks."

I remember pausing for a moment to contemplate this wisdom that had been put forth before me. I pictured 100 teenage boners lined up outside of my daughter's window. I imagined smashing each one of those boners with an aluminum baseball bat. Kind of like that game "Wack A Mole" but with boners.

This is how men think before they have girls.

When my daughter was still less than a year old, my Grandmother said something to me as I held my daughter. I'll always remember what she told me, for it is her words that completely sum up the simple but divine truth about having a daughter.

"There is nothing quite as wonderful, as the smile a little girl smiles, for her Daddy."

These are the words that best describe the gifts that I get daily from my daughters.

I have often searched for a way to explain how these smiles make me feel inside. Lately, I have been experiencing a certain physical sensation that sums it up completely.

Have you ever felt yourself starting to cry but just as your eyes well up, that feeling is met with the perfect synchronicity of inexplicable joy?

I suppose this is called, "Tears of Joy" and my tears of joy could fill a well right about now.

I don't worry about the boners anymore. There's nothing I can do about them. But my daughters bring out the best in me.

They make me want to be a better man; Every day, every week, every year, for the rest of my life.

They say that a girl always marries a guy just like her Dad.

If this is true, then I have a lifetime of work to do.

I can't control the boners but I can hopefully influence which ones they choose to hold on to.

Fuck. That totally wasn't what I was trying to say...

Just to be clear, I am not claiming that having a daughter is better than having a son. I have no way of knowing what it's like to have a son but I know I am a son and I can't be half as awesome as my daughters have been. They also say that you should have a daughter first. This way you know that she will take care of you when you are old, drooling and your wrinkled ass is hanging out of you nursing home gown. Supposedly the sons just take off and go wherever the pussy goes. Who knows? This is what I have heard.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Leave Me Alone, You Alien Bastards...

I have a fear of heights.

I have since I was a kid.

I can't stand too close to the edge of anything higher than an easy jump.

I can't even comfortably look out the window of a tall building without getting a bit unnerved.

Standing on a ladder makes me quiver.

My mother once went to a psychic and showed her a picture of me. She said that in a previous life, I was a fighter pilot, shot down in World War 2.

That makes total sense.


When people ask me what I am afraid of, heights is what I tell them.


Not quite...

What I am about to divulge might destroy any shred of credibility I have built for myself over the years. It may seem far fetched and extravagant but it is simply the truth as it relates to my experiences.

I am afraid of sleep.

This may seem odd to those who know me well.

Jason you love sleep. You adore it. You embrace the opportunity to lay back, cuddle up under the warmth of a freshly washed quilt, rest your weary keppie on a cool pillow and gay shluffen.

Yes. This is true. I love sleep but I fear for the times when sleep takes me to a place that makes me feel vulnerable and unsafe. I fear the loss of control.

I fear the aliens.

*Needle of record player scratching vinyl.*

What are you, a fucking wackadoo?

No. I am no wackadoo and I know what I know.

It doesn't happen much but every few months, maybe once a year, I experience a terrifying out of body experience during sleep. I have heard the term "sleep paralysis" used to describe this but I am not sure that this is a diagnosis as much as it is a simple description of the symptoms.

This is what happens...

During the deepest part of my slumber, I become aware of my state of being. It is almost as if I am watching my self from above my bed. I can see myself. I can see my wife and through the darkness I can make out bits and pieces of my bedroom. The only thing is...

I can't move.

I can't move a muscle.

I am completely and utterly trapped inside my own dead shell.

I am dreaming but I am awake.

It is a helpless and terrifying feeling.

It is as if I were on a cold, sterile metal cart in the morgue, about to be sliced open by the mortician.

I try to scream.

I try to lift my arms.

I try with every ounce of strength to nudge my sleeping wife so she can jar me awake.

I count to three in my head and try to lunge my arm upward in a desperate but futile attempt to escape.

I hear my own cries; a flutter of crackling noise, barely audible.


I panic until the fear becomes unbearable. It seems hopeless, as if I will never be free from the grips of my nightmare.

Then my wife. My sweet wife rescues me. She knows I am struggling. She knows I am trapped. She's been here before with me. She knows what it takes to bring me back.

This has happened so many times during our years together that she is fully aware of my level of discomfort.

We have talked at length about the experience I have. We have even gone so far as to talk about what she needs to do if she becomes aware of this situation developing.

She knows first to firmly nudge me. She knows to then talk to me in a loud voice in order to startle me. If this doesn't work, she knows that she must forcefully slap me in the face, repeatedly if I don't respond to the previous tactics.

This must happen quickly. Every second is important.

I know this seems bizarre but it is true and it is serious to me. As serious as a heart attack.

When I finally awaken, I ask her if I was moving and she says yes.

I ask her if I was saying anything and she tells me that it was as if I was crying for help.

This is exactly what I feel. It is exactly what I see.

About 12 years ago, before my wife and I had our first child, I had experienced one of these episodes of sleep paralysis. We were living in an apartment at the time. This particular episode was different.

During my paralysis, I became aware of another presence.

I was not alone.

As I lay in bed, watching my nightmare unfold, there appeared a long, thin, deformed, black figure in the doorway to my bedroom. It slowly approached the foot of my bed. I tried furiously to shock myself awake but to no avail. Frozen in terror I felt my will turn over to the darkness.

I stared at the black figure and tried to make out the details of its face. They seemed blurry and unrecognizable.

The figure reached toward me and placed its hand on my leg. I felt the pressure of its grip. It did not hurt but it made me feel powerless.

Then without any noticeable passage of time, it was gone.

Like so many times before, my wife finally succeeded in waking me up.

I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts.

The picture of the faceless being that had just violated my home was burned into my brain. The experience left me rattled and shaken.

The next day, I approached a co-worker about the experience and told him what had happened. He told me that he had gone through a similar experience. He explained to me that he had read a book that told of numerous first hand accounts involving alien contact and even abduction. He mentioned that there was a passage in the book that explained one particular circumstance that abductees had in common. The so called, "sleep paralysis".

Instead of giving me a sense of relief that others shared in my experience, it made me even more frightened.

Why is this happening to me?

How did they find me?

What have they taken from me?

Will it happen again?

Over the years, I have had several other episodes of sleep paralysis.

I have not seen the dark, alien figure since that night.

I do not know if the two things were related or if they were even real.

But I am afraid to go to sleep.

I believe we are not alone.

I pray to God that the aliens do not read my blog...