It was daddy, in the kitchen, with the peanut butter

I’ve always felt relatively comfortable in my role as a father. I’m blessed to have been there for every milestone so far, from crawling to first words. One milestone, if you would call it that, made me feel terrible. It was one of those moments where even though it really isn’t your fault, you still feel terrible and like a failure.

On the east coast we didn’t have much of a summer. It was nice to only hit ninety degrees a handful of times. One such day, when humidity was particularly unbearable, I decided a cold lunch was necessary. Not wanting to have a showdown between the air conditioner and the stove, sandwiches were my sustenance of choice.

“What do babies like?” I wondered to myself.

The kids had finally gotten enough teeth in their craniums and this was during the transition to solid meals. I settled on peanut butter sandwiches and banana slices.

I remember being extra proud of myself. The food was laid out nicely, looked like the type of thing you might see on Pinterest! Oh the kids, they loved it! I was dad of the day, nay, the century! As I double fist pumped and the kids finished their meal I set up the daily entertainment, Mickey Mouse (Oh Toodles!!).

About fifteen minutes went by before I noticed anything. Killian began to break out in red splotchy spots. Suddenly my son started to look less like my son and more like that one muppet character, Janice, from the band.

When I realized what was happening i went into what I can only describe as robot super dad mode. As I called the pediatrician I also started applying Aveeno to my son’s body. I’m starting to think Kim Kardashian has a spy camera in my house because her latest picture is a direct rip off of how my child looked.

The pediatrician informed me to get to the hospital. Unfortunately my wife was at work, with our only car. This left me two options; an all inclusive ride in an ambulance or grandma and grandpa.

I’ll make it known right now that Diana’s parents and I do not get along. There is a longstanding hatred there that may never dissipate, but someone needed to watch Nicolas. As I sacrificed pride and all sorts of hatred toward her parent I called. I was told they were “busy”. I told them “don’t worry about it then” and hung up. As I got the kids ready I received a call that they would be on their way.

One awkward car ride later I’m carrying my son into the ER. Now I’ve never been the greatest with talking to people, or words, whatever. As I walk up to the desk I announce rather loudly, “I’ve poisoned my son!!”

I swear to you, orderlies are house elves or something. Five appeared. Five! Out of thin air, I was surrounded! As the receptionist stared quizzically at me I remembered you can’t just get to the point anymore and revised myself.
” I gave my son peanut butter and I think he is having an allergic reaction”

“Does your son have a peanut allergy?”

“It fucking looks like it!” (Remember the lack of social skills?)

As the order of apparating orderlies ushered me into triage I tried my best to remain calm about the situation. I’ve always been a nervous laugher and an inappropriate joker. Making light of situations is my coping mechanism and I would be a liar if I told you on the inside I wasn’t freaking out. The nurses in triage didn’t share my sense of humor. I might have also been a bit on edge, so my comments were rather dickish and insensitive. I didn’t want to sit and talk, I wanted my son to stop his transformation into a muppet.

“Hi, how are you?”

“Not good, I’ve poisoned my son with peanut butter”

“Okay, does your son have a peanut allergy” (this again, really??)

“No, he just likes to break out in hives randomly for shits and giggles, apparently its his thing.”

“You know, allergic reactions can lead to Ana-”

“Anaphylactic shock, I have google and webMD, are you going to help my son or what?”

As we got Killian weighed and into a hospital room his skin and swelling had gone down. I explained to them I had used Aveeno on him immediately and the doctors decided to keep us a few hours for observation. Occasionally my best friends, the nurses, would peek in and check on us.

“How is he doing?”

“Not dead”

As nurse visits became surprisingly less frequent, Killian and I became anxious to get out of there. An orderly apparated in the hallway and I asked him if we could go. The doctor came around with his gang of glaring nurses and released us. Before we left head nurse “taught” me how to use an epi pen. I say taught in quotations because I’m pretty sure she purposely showed me how to do it wrongly on purpose, all the while emphatically telling me how bad it could be if I used the Epi wrong. Luckily my amazing webMD and Google skills, coupled with my ability to read directions, prevented me from stabbing myself in my finger while trying to prevent the next accidental poisoning of my son.

Now obviously there was no way I could have known my son would react that way to peanut butter, but that doesn’t change the terrible feeling I felt. In that moment I felt like a horrible parent. It’s just one of those things that happens and you move past it, but you don’t feel any less bad about it.

Things like this happen, I’m sure throughout parenthood. From poisoning my son to any other parenting hiccup I’ve learned that you can’t beat yourself up, you have to move on and continue parenting. So while I might have felt like the worst parent that day, I learned a good lesson in the naivety that comes along with parenting. I also know I sure as hell won’t be feeding Killian any peanut butter again.

Have you ever had a parenting hiccup? What was it? How did it make you feel? How did you move past it?



Dad Shaming and Chupacabra Attacks

I am lucky enough not to suffer from “daddy insecurity”. What’s that, no one asked? Okay, well I’m going to talk about it anyway. Do I consider myself a fantastic father (alliteration for the win)? Not especially. I have major faults and flaws. Each day though, I put on my special dad pants and give the parenting another go. And you know what doesn’t bother me? Other people’s opinions, blogs about dads being dumb and the Chupacabra.

There is an entire niche in the blogging community that thrives on making dads out as dumb. Personally, I find it absolutely hilarious! I don’t do dishes but once a year when my wife threatens to withhold fellatio I’ll pick up a sponge. If it wasn’t for my wonderful wife I would always be in dirty clothes, we have had a washer and dryer for a year now, I’ve used it a total of zero times. Keep calm and go ask mommy where your onesies are kids, daddy couldn’t find the laundry room with Dora’s assistance.

That’s not to say I’m a dumb or useless dad. A lazy person? Yes, but not a dumb dad. I change dirty diapers, give baths, help the kids throw pasta on the wall. Hell, I even sweep! My kids adore me and I them. We have matching mohawks! How frickin cool is that? Our days consist of cuddles, snuggles, laughter and soggy diapers, and it’s always an adventure!

I’m not nor have I ever felt defined by the opinions of others. Life is stressful enough without the added worry. I’ve managed to read pieces on dads being dumb without coming out of the article completely transformed into a useless father. That’s insane right? These articles aren’t affecting how I raise my kids! If I am comfortable with myself as a parental figure, why should I be bothered by these articles? I’m not, I don’t have “daddy insecurity”!

Being comfortable and confident in your ability to parent is an essential component to laying the foundation for your kid’s future self-esteem. Wow, I got wordy there. For any dumb dads reading, being sure of your ability to dad could help your children grow up and be sure of themselves.

So there it is! The truth of it! “dad shaming” or “dumb dad fodder” doesn’t bother me. I don’t really see the point in getting riled up over them. Satirical articles used as click bait to drive up numbers and viewership. They are usually the same joke rehashed for the millionth time. Why should that bother anybody? I know the father I am, an article doesn’t change that for me. In actuality the likelihood of a Chupacabra attack is significantly higher than an article transforming you into a bad parent. If you are still worried about it though I have a new line of helmets like the one Magneto wore that will block out the powers of dumb dad articles, just leave your ssn in the comments section.

How do you feel about dumb dad pieces? What about parental insecurity? Do you need a magneto helmet?



Five Disasters of Adorable Proportions

Try as we might to keep up on everything, kids are messy. They aren’t just messy, they are insanely messy. You can’t step out of a room for a minute without returning to the scene of what clearly had to be one hell of a party. Before kids I had always thought my dog would always hold the title for destroyer of rooms. She quickly lost that honor when the boys became mobile. So here it is, my first attempt at the “hip” “rad” list blogging.

1) Mealtime

Man, don’t you sometimes wish you could just formula feed them? Simple, little bit of mess on the shirt collars but other than that it is a simple and easy task. I don’t know what it is about food that kids feel it would function great as hair gel. My kids end the day with bits of cheerio, pasta sauce and juice matted into their adorable little heads. Anything they eat, the thought process is “I wonder how this will look in my hair, I’ll just rub some in there,”. Don’t get me started on my beautiful walls, which have become adorned with toddler cave drawings. Spaghetti hand prints are scattered through my house like blues clues, if I ever make it big I want my first sponsor to be Mr. Clean magic erasers.

I’m seriously worried my kids are malnourished. The doctor says they are healthy but I just don’t know how much of their meals are being eaten by them. Between whipping corn at me, sliding chicken nuggets to the dog on the sly and their current quest to become Banksy not much food has to be eaten. “Well you have to hand feed them”… Well you can go ahead and try, but these tyrants will fight you and demand to feed themselves. I’m using the term feed rather loosely here.

2) Bathtime

In an effort to wash food hair product out I end up making my bathroom look like New Orleans circa 2005. My kids are some serious splashers. I almost want to resort to sponge bathing so I don’t end up in a puddle after twenty minutes. Fighting two toddlers at bath time is what I envision trying to baptize the devil would be like.

Once I apply shampoo to my kids heads and go to wash it out all hell breaks loose. I’m not sure if my kids are gifted but they know the five D’s of dodgeball and have a bright future in the sport. We have a pelican water jug to wash the soap away. I’ve never witnessed such elusiveness as when that fucker comes out. All of a sudden my kids channel Neo from the Matrix. Water, flailing body parts and bubbles. I wipe the water from my glasses to see two smiling faces, and shampoo Mohawks still perfect. Screw it, let them go to bed with shampoo in their hair.

3) personal time

Anytime I leave the room to use the bathroom I never know what I’m going to come back to. That’s not true, I do know. There will be a mess, I’m just unsure of the size and clean up time involved. Today my kids got a hold of the newspaper. I am not sure the thought process they had all I know is it looked like my kids were getting into extreme couponing. Stella, the dog, sat in the corner jealous of their paper shredding ability. Bear in mind I was in the bathroom for thirty seconds. In a thirty second period top stories, regional, opinion, and sports had been destroyed. I managed to save the classifieds which was good because I’m going to need a maid to help keep up with these monsters.

Any unsupervised time is spent destroying. These kids have a toy chest, it never gets attention. Until daddy is straining Mac and cheese. Then my kids turned into body builders. They literally flipped the thing! Toys scattered EVERYWHERE. I’m still finding blocks in the oddest places, how the hell did they end up behind the entertainment system?? Another kid favorite is taking the couch cushions and spreading them around. I know, five cushions and back pillows aren’t a major mess, unless you couple it with a flipped toy chest and shredded newspaper.


4) Laundry Day

Folding clothes with kids around is useless. I sit there folding the same shirt six times because one of the kids deemed my first fold job not up to par. Finally, after folding each article of clothing at least six times my kids’ Hulkamania kicks in and they flip the basket… The basket that should have taken me five minutes to fold but took a half hour because I had to re fold everything like I had some strange form of OCD.

Laundry folding ends up being like the movie Groundhog Day. Every day. Same basket. Same clothes. It gets to the point where I have begun to accept the wrinkled shirt lifestyle. Even putting clothes away in dressers. If I do miraculously manage to fold the clothes and put them away my kids will find a way to get five seconds of free time to remove any clothes they can reach in their dresser. I’m starting to think that the dog is in on this, I don’t trust her.

5) Cleaning Time

Ever tried to sweep with toddlers? They want to help…and completely suck at it. Thanks I did make that pile of dirt so you could sort through it in your freshly cleaned wrinkled clothes. I’ve got four grubby spaghetti hands grabbing for the broom every time I try to sweep. It’s tiring, I’m yawning just thinking of the power struggle I will have to deal with next time I sweep the kitchen.

Sweeping isn’t the only time I run into problems with the destructo crew either. It’s really any form of cleaning. Dishes? Have to spend twenty minutes looking for the child size utensils that were used as projectiles. Anytime I pick up a toy and put it away I return to two toys in the previous place. Sometimes it feels like I spend half my day pacing back in forth between the toy bin and couch, each time becoming slightly more unhinged. The kids almost think of it as a game, I see the evil in their eyes as they take a toy and place it on the ground. They have trained me quite well.


Now I used to be super pumped for nap time. I thought it was open to everybody and would be a wonderful siesta. NOPE. When my kids go down for nap I have to go and fetch my french maid outfit. Food needs to be prepped for wall art, bathrooms need their flood water mopped up. Then it’s on to flipped toy boxes and clothes to fold. Even then naptime is only an hour and a half to two hours tops. Then five minutes after the house is a beautiful disaster again. The cycle never ends *eye twitch*

Do you have a hard time keeping up with the mess? What’s a story of mess from your house?


Ermagherd twins!!

My boys are not twins. Well they are but we almost never call them “the twins” it’s always the kids, the boys, tyrants. The wife and I decided before they were born we would treat them as individuals. To me the moniker twins clumps them together. That’s just personal opinion. Since they were born they have worn matching outfits sparingly. Usually it’s grandma that matches them. They had bear snowsuits but only because we were given them and they were adorable. I tend to stay away from ever referring to them as a single entity.

Now I’m not parent bashing or even judging how households with multiples decide to dress or raise or nickname their children. Those are your kids, do what you want. I’m talking my household. I have always felt an objection to labeling of any form.

Going to the grocery store is tough. Everyone stops us. EVERYONE. It takes us an hour to get milk.
“Are they twins?!”
“Oh my god, twins?!”
” Did you know my sisters’ boss had a cousin who was a twin?”
I know this will never change. When I see parents of twins we always give the same understanding look. We don’t stop each other to marvel in awe at the amazement of twins. There is no “oh my god we both have twins, seriously I thought I had the only ones!” It just has never happened. An acknowledgment? Maybe a head nod then it’s back to trying to wade through the masses who feel the need to abruptly stop us.

I’m not a social butterfly. Sure get a couple drinks in me and I’ll sing Counting Crows at karaoke. Besides that though I have always had a feeling of anxiety and anger in public. People jostle you, get in your way, have obnoxiously loud conversations in public. Diana knows this about me. Taking me anywhere usually involves an argument or promises of future sexual favors.

Maybe that’s why I was blessed with twins. To live out the purgatory of public. It could very well be why I hate the term twins. As someone who has always been against the grain, against conformity, the moniker brings aggravation and forced smiles. No, they are two regular boys who happened to be born two minutes a part.

Killian is a sweetheart. He loves to laugh, loves to cuddle and absolutely loves to smile. The boy was born with an extra serving of good nature and I love him for it. I know he will grow up to be a lover and the friend you go to who makes you feel better.


Nicolas is fierce. The boy is a warrior and smart, much smarter than he should be. He sees any sort of obstacles in the way of his goals then deftly maneuvers past them. The boy is me. I see it, he isn’t friendly and social, prefers to stare at a person and size them up.


I love both my children equally. The moniker twins is a disservice to their individuality. It combines them as a single unit while simultaneously separating them from peers. Anywhere we go, everywhere we go it’s about the twins. It’s not how is Killian? What about Nicolas? How are the twins? They look so much alike!


What will happen when our “singleton” enters the picture? I can only assume people will stop us and say “Woah is that twins?” Then take no notice of their little brother.

The thought unsettles and nauseates me. We live in an age where information is instantly transmitted around the world. It’s at your fingertips! Twins are so astounding, Google pictures of them, but please don’t show them to me. I had the same picture shown to me thirteen goddamn times in the past two days. It was a cute picture but the thought process now is “Briton has twins!! He needs to see this!!” I am a parent of boys, tyrants kids! Not different than anyone else. It makes me feel special being thought of but not when it’s under the classification of being a parent of twins. Send me dad of the year photos!

Maybe I’m the only parent that feels this sort of way? I wouldn’t know because I have missed all the multiples support groups. I was too busy hanging with the parents of singletons.

*Drops Mic*

I usually don’t do this but I’ve seen it on some great blogs and in order to be great you should fake it till you make it or steal from the greats. Do you have twins? Do you feel they get clumped together? Do you not have twins? Have I offended you? Is anyone still reading this?


Origin stories; this is how we do

“How do you do it?”
The question everyone asks. People are in such wonder of twins and how could you possibly raise both of them!
“It’s all we have ever known, we don’t know how to raise one, we have always had both of them”.
A simple enough response, but the cloud of mystery on an inquisitive face instantly vanishes. It’s all they have ever known, of course! This is usually followed by a “oh bless you!” Or other phrase insinuating saintly parenting. Sister Serendip might draw some similarities there. So here it is, about a month out from having a “singleton” I pause to reflect on “how I do it”

When you mix Jose Cuervo, a beach ironically named Pleasure Beach, and unprotected sex you are pretty much taunting the powers that be into gifting you with offspring. Now I’m not a learned doctor but combining those three things to me seems more effective than fertility treatments. On said night we had been out at our friends Matt and Noah’s playing cards, having a blast. As the night wound down Diana and I decided to end the night at our favorite beach. On thing led to another and we were twenty yards out on a floating platform recreating what I feel is probably the start to ninety percent of slasher films. Two drunk kids having sex in the middle of the nowhere. while Jason Vorhees didn’t surprise us at climax another surprise certainly occurred.

Flash forward six weeks, three fights, and one box of pregnancy tests we found out we were expecting. A week later we found out it was “double trouble” I remember when the ultrasound technician said ” Oh, there’s two in there”
“No we only asked you to find one”. I responded in shock and disbelief. There it was, Killian and Nicolas, baby “A” and baby “B”.

…holy shit…

For people not familiar with two aliens growing in a body, multiples don’t enjoy staying full term. Our boys weren’t any different. On March 30th, 2013 the wife wasn’t feeling top notch. It turns out she had developed a form of preeclampsia known as HELLP syndrome, Google it, shit is scary. With her blood pressure skyrocketing the doctors were forced to do an emergency c-section.

Did I mention this was apparently the one day of the year our OBGYN was out of town. I was living the movie knocked up. So I’m in a room with my drugged up wife while some dude I’ve never met uses a medical tool set I assume he bought from a Dexter memorabilia site. At 10:05 I heard Killian for the first time, at 10:07 Nicolas. As I tried not to faint while cutting umbilical cords (no one told me it would squirt blood at me! The whole cutting of the umbilical cords could be a blog-novel itself) something else was occurring.

My wife had become unresponsive. As monitors began to beep alarmingly I looked around confused but completely knowing what was going on. Now everyone is covered head to toe in scrubs and protective wear. Their eyes though, I can see the worry in them. Still reeling from the umbilical cord debacle of a minute prior I was already faint and woozy, everything was tunnel vision. The anesthesiologist and a nurse immediately tried to usher me out to see my newborns. I loved my kids from the moment we found out about them, but I wasn’t going to leave my wife’s side.

Sitting there watching your wife slip away is a surreal experience. It was only a matter of minutes but I spent an eternity staring at her expressionless face. What was I going to do? How would I survive? Diana has always been the calm to my storm. As my insides rage her anchor kept me from going adrift. To lose her, the thought of it even was incomprehensible. All of a sudden it was too real. As future birthdays and anniversaries flashed through my mind without, something inside Diana sparked. She began to stabilize and come back to me. When her eyes fluttered open a collective sigh of relief was exhaled by doctors, nurses and myself. When I knew she was ok I could focus on being a new father.


A few days in ICU for the wife, a week and a half in NICU for the boys and finally my family was home and exhausted but whole. Diana was on bed rest, I was all too happy to take care of the boys though. Schedules were set, responsibilities divided and we began our adventure.


It seems eons ago that I watched my wife die and faced the possibility of being alone in this world with my boys. That brief moment lasted an eternity. Fortunately for our family it was only a moment. My boys are blessed with two loving parents but for that brief window, I was a widowed father of twins. Mentally I have lived that life, it was very real to me.

“How do you do it?”

The question is so loaded, usually the person asking it doesn’t even realize.

“It’s all we have ever known”



Chocolate shut me ups

I swear once you clear away the cobwebs and dust there is a blog in here. It’s been a while, almost a whole month without anything to write. The party post was my greatest achievement as a “daddy blogger”. And because I put a lot of energy and excitement into it my creativity switch flipped to off. I’ve had blue balls of the brain, the dreaded writers block. I feel like the storm has lifted, I’m back bitches!

Kids can be tough to raise because there are so many factors that have to be taken into account every single fucking day. One slip up or “enablement” can set the course to weeks of bad behavior and “snotty twat syndrome” (medical terminology) I don’t think people ever really warn about that aspect. You see enablement and judge it. I know I did. I would see a child being enabled and would think to myself “I would never do that, my kids won’t pull that shit with me”.

What you don’t see is the parent that has been working fifty hour weeks, has unpaid bills, only got three hours of sleep and has drank their weight in coffee. We don’t see or get told much about the breaking point that as a parent you can be at for what seems like eternity. No parent wants to raise a twat. When my kids were born i promised to raise young gentleman who accepted all sorts of people and lived with love, not little twats that throw dirt in the poor kids watermelon as he ate it on the sidewalk (fuck you brad, if I ever see you again I’m going to kick the shit out of you. I was four, you were seven and suffered from severe twat syndrome)

Anyways, breaking points…enabling children….we all do it. It’s not easy to admit but today my kid was throwing a tantrum, his third of the day. I didn’t sleep well yesterday, I was worn out, annoyed because naps have been failing and wanted peace. I have never stuffed a kids face with chocolate so badly. I knew it was wrong but I also knew I might start banging my head against the wall of I didn’t get that moment of peace.

Does that make me a bad parent? No it doesn’t. It makes me a real parent. This whole process, this journey, is a learning process whether it’s your first or fifth kid. We are raising individuals who like different things, no one child is the exact same as another, even twins. Mistakes happen, enabling occurs, we as parents have a right to sometimes feel helpless and make mistakes. Acting on enabling is a step back, but it shouldn’t be a failure.

Will it happen again? It’s possible. No it’s probable. It’s definite. As long as it isn’t a constant, the mistakes we make are small lessons that will make us better as we continue the insane journey called parenthood. You aren’t a bad parent for faltering. And I want to personally admit I enable from time to time, I’m not proud of it but it gets done. Fuck anyone who pretends to have this whole thing down and under control, because some of the greatest parents I have come to meet and learn from did their best and most of the time that was “fake it till you make it”

Now that the dust has been swept and the floors mopped it doesn’t look that bad in here. Might be space for some more blogs in that corner over there. This place is cozy and comfy! What’s that? You’ve left…okay I’ll stop writing but thanks for reading!


From partying to parenting; a smooth transition

People always ask me if I ever sleep and are amazed at how I function on such little sleep. I guess they forget I’m twenty three. I’m a young parent two years removed from the party like a rockstar lifestyle. I have never known rest, there ain’t no rest for the wicked and certainly no fucking sleep for the parent. If you look at it though all that partying really was an awesome crash course in parenting. I would go as far as to say 90% of my parenting I learned while partying. Yes, esteemed scientist Punk Rock Papa has found the missing link between party animal and parent of the year!


Kids are terrible with words. They start off not being able to say anything, graduate to repeating the same thing over and over, upgrade to talking all silly and saying things they aren’t supposed to then finally begin speaking clearly. That’s drinking in reverse! Basically a newborn is your blacked out buddy who is so gone, even simple head gestures are a fucking miracle. Turns out babies are just a black out in reverse. Jeez kids carry yourself a little better.

(Research crew)

Parenting is sober partying, I’ve just become the designated driver. I’ve still got that annoying fucker at two in the morning who is crying over god knows what. “Shut up and drink this!” The difference now is the bottle isn’t Jack Daniels or a beer; it’s a bottle of milk. Everybody has or has been THAT friend. Just take the bottle and stop bitching. EXACTLY like parenting! I was lucky enough to have plenty of cry at two in the morning after a party because so and so didn’t notice me friends. You know you’ve been there with the bottle of vodka trying to pour it down their throat just to get them to shut the fuck up! Call that friend up and thank them for the hands on practice that is easily applicable to an infant.

(About to test out some hypothesis)

Another kick of parenting reminding me of parties past is the stupidity of kids. Okay they aren’t stupid they are naive but they do some SUPER dumb stuff. There is always that one person at a party who ends up doing something completely dumb. I always love watching a dumbass in their natural habitat and always cheered them on. “Hey that was really dumb…do it again!” Kids are the same way! Sure they aren’t nine shots deep but are still rather dumb on their first few attempts. When a kid first begins to walk it’s hilarious! They get up, fall down, get a shit eating grin and repeat. I’ve got a ton of friends I’ve watched do that! And it was just as funny when my kids did it.

(Onto something…or possibly on something)

Kids are THAT friend, the one who gets you uninvited everywhere. You know that friend, the one who starts a fight or accidentally spilled his drink on the girlfriend of John Cena’s third removed cousin from a second marriage. No one wants to hang with him but you because you know he is a good guy and is just misunderstood. Dude! That’s your fucking child! The reason your staying home at night is because lil saggy diaper can be an embarrassment of spilled drinks and apologies. There’s nothing wrong with admitting it, just let it go.

(Going over results)

Kids do that thing, you know in their diapers… Well drunks sometimes do that too. I had a friend when I was super cool and popular (it’s my nostalgic memory I’ll remember it how I please) who was a habitual offender of drunken pee pee pants. Dude could turn any sofa or rug from a lovely place to crash into a hazmat site. One end soaked in urine the other soaked in tears wondering why no one wanted him around anymore. How many crib sheets or onesies have you had to strip covered in tears and piss? Time to call this friend up and give them a thank you too, all the easier if it’s also Sobby McSobSob. Might want to also apologize for pouring the bottle down their throat to the point they loss bladder control functions.


In some capacity, anyone who has partied was really just prepping for becoming a parent. As you can see the connections have been made! It’s super fucking similar. Now anytime you go out and get a little wild and let loose think of it as a refresher course in parenting. A ripe lushberry is an elite parent in the making. The more I look back at my past I can be comforted knowing I was just prepping for my twins. How else was a I gonna get experience if it weren’t for drunken nights??



Taco Flavored Kisses

I’m sitting here fantasizing about working up enough energy to make a second trip to Taco Bell. Yes a second trip, I went about an hour and a half ago. Don’t judge me on my love of mystery meats and greasy E. Coli covered fast food! That shit is delicious! I’m not poisoning my kids with it only myself, they can have floor Cheerios.

I guess what I’m saying is I’m happy where I am in life. If you are able financially to hit up Taco Bell twice in a two hour span you mustn’t be doing too poorly. That or maybe I’m just fiscally irresponsible. Whatever. But the point is to be thankful for what you have and are able to do. There was a time when I ate ramen, for like three years, everyday.

Since the birth of my kids I have had a mantra I follow when it comes to how I handle my paycheck week to week. Babies, Bills, Beer. As long as my kids have everything they needed and the bills are not late Papa has a case of beer in the fridge. I’m a lushberry oh well!

It’s not about money, or materials. Financial security is just something I haven’t had often in my life so it’s something I’m rather thankful for. But there are totally other things to be thankful for! Kids, wife, dog, friends the whole shebang. I could write a novel about how thankful I am of each and every one of them. Hey maybe I will one day! Who doesn’t love gushing about themselves and the people deemed worthy enough to have a significant part of your life.

I’m happy that I have worked myself to the place in life I can provide for my family and still eat tacos like I blazed a doobie. No I don’t have everything in the world, but I do have beautiful children, a roof over my head, a loving wife, my precious dog, and most importantly I’ve got taco flavored kisses.


The next generation

We are living in an insane world, our idols are beating women and children or drunkenly crashing their cars into innocent victims. Our schools aren’t safe from kindergarten through high school. Our privacy has been compromised and every day another tragedy has struck, each time getting closer and closer to home. Throughout all that we are supposed to raise our children to understand a world I don’t think we understand very well ourselves.

When my wife was pregnant with the twins something horrible, heart wrenching, happened an hour away from where I live. 20 children and 6 adults were violently gunned down. This was December of 2012, my kids were born in March of 2013 so my wife was around five months pregnant. I remember watching the screen as this unbelievable horror unfolded. Tears ran down my face and my heart utterly broke. And then I got scared, I was terrified. On the verge of becoming a father I saw the faces of those children flash across the screen and began to feel the pain I knew their parents felt, knowing they would never feel embrace again from child. I was utterly broken for every single parent that day and absolutely terrified because I was becoming one.

Being a parent in such a dangerous and preying world is quite frankly piss your pants terrifying. You can’t be crippled by that fear. It doesn’t do you good and it doesn’t help your child grow. What do you need in the darkness? You need light. So while I watch the world and feel that it’s crumbling around me I try to shield my children as best I can but know the only thing I can do is try to raise lights to shine in this dark, ugly place.

We have let the world become what it is today. If you do not see hell on earth good for you, but get your eyes checked. As we raise the next generation we need to rebuild, for this world is all but destroyed. Plant seeds of love and compassion in your child. As our children grow and flourish so too will that love you planted. Maybe if we start raising our kids not to hate others for differences but embrace them for it we can change the world. The future shouldn’t have to live in crippling fear of turning on the news and seeing another tragedy. Let those lights shine bright and never dim with malice or hate. Your kids are the future, but you are the architect.


990 likes, 4 brains, 2 indigo Serendipity’s, A Mad Dad, A Cat on a Trampoline, A Sleepy Momma and Me

As my page approached a thousand ‘likes’ yesterday I continuously shook it off and tried to down play it. “Likes don’t matter, I don’t care about numbers”. Constantly I told myself this as I repeatedly refreshed my page looking at the number of followers I had. We all say it as page admins, we are in it to have fun or to post things we can’t post on our personal pages for fear of family backlash. But we are all human beings! Surprise! We are people and we are all partly vain as fuck!

I’m gonna put this out there. If you say you are not about numbers, you’re a liar. I say it all the time and I know I’m lying. Everybody hits milestone likes and does a little dance or shows it off to someone. There is nothing wrong with being proud of accomplishment. That extends to people without pages. It’s not vain, it’s not snobby or conceited! Fuck people that say anything other than “congrats, that’s awesome!” Or “you kick ass and I love the shit out of it!” after you are proud of something you have accomplished. When you do something and you’re proud of it, flaunt that shit! The best part of flaunting it is you key in on the people who actually are invested in the success of you! Gravitate towards them!

How does this relate to parenting and life and such? Easy! My kids do something or are proud I turn into the biggest fucking cheerleader the world has ever seen! Pom poms and miniskirt the whole shabang! I look like an extra in Bring it on. Here’s what I say, fuck modesty! And before you go wow that’s super vain or something hear me out. I’m not saying to be a prick spike a volleyball in your toddlers face and have a margarita. Well that might be something I would do but back to the point, be proud of the accomplishments! Pat yourself on the back! Tell people about it. I tell complete strangers I’m internet famous. I’m THAT guy!

I believe strongly in showing off. I saw I hit a thousand followers and everyone in my house knew it. Those lil tyrants in their crib? Woke those fuckers up! “Daddy is famous now! You may continue your slumber”. My wife? “Later when we have sex don’t forget to ask for my autograph, you’re fucking an internet sensation!”. My fucking dog even heard about it ” I will walk you but first I need to tell you I’m internet famous, yes Stella woof woof woof.”

When you do something and you find yourself halfway decent at it the best thing is to let the world know! Those people that truly care and love and support you will don their Pom poms and miniskirt and we will line up to cheer you on and raise a glass to you. This is long winded and real stream of consciousness but I hope somewhere in there is a message everyone can take from this! What I’ve gathered is I might be super vain and conceited, I see no wrong in being happy for myself and letting people know that I am Punk Rock Papa