The time my kid tried to kill me or make sure you pay attention to your kids

Long before discovering the joys of writing more than witty one liners, there was an incident in my house with Killian that I posted about on my Facebook. I seem to talk about Killian more then Nicolas because he seems to be the one doing more things that cause me to shake my head or scratch my head quizzically. This incident was documented on my fb page when I had about 200 followers. If you are one of those been there since the beginning folks then this story is a retelling of the time I found my kid tried to take me out.

I work at night. This makes it easier on our family, I can be there to take care of the kids during the day while my wife goes off to do whatever she does to earn a paycheck. No, I don’t know what she does for a living, she has told me a hundred and one times and I just can’t remember. It earns her a paycheck and she doesn’t leave the house in hooker heels so I really don’t care to try and remember what it is. Something to do with being a social worker, and while that is a very appropriate term for stripper I really don’t think she works the red light district.

Working all night and raising kids all day is hard. It’s something that is done out of necessity, not choice. I would love to ship the kids off to a Haitian daycare provider so I could sleep. Actually did do that! They attended daycare for a grand total of four days before anxiety gripped dad pulled them. The point of them going to daycare was so I could rest. All I did was stare at the clock waiting for my kids to come home, worrying about their well being.

So, being at home with the kids, you still have housework to do. So I would try and set the kids up with some distracting activity and set about cleaning like dude Cinderella.

Every parent knows that if a house with kids goes quiet something is up. I was so busy cleaning the living room, I missed the quiet creep in.

As I swept the floor, eyes half open and bloodshot, humming some song about how bad I had it, the quiet crept in.

We had recently moved, so we had moving boxes everywhere. Unbeknownst to me, Killian had taken an empty cardboard box and pushed it up against the cabinets and countertop area. Then he climbed onto it.


“What the fuck have the kids gotten into now?” I wondered to myself as I headed to the kitchen.

And there he was. Killian on top of a box.

Next to the knife block.

Steak knife in hand.

As Killian giggled and stomped his feet I’ll always remember the, “Dude, Not cool!” look on Nicolas’ face. I’m pretty sure that clang I had heard was a knife directed in his direction.

So here I am, face to face with a knife wielding toddler, unsure of exactly what the hell to do. It felt like a tense stand off between us. I knew that if I yelled or moved to fast I might scare him into accidentally dropping the knife, possibly cutting himself. While my kids drive me insane some days, I do enjoy them whole. Didn’t want little man losing a toe! Or worse!

“Hey bubba, what are you doing? Give me that please”

“Killian, you’re so silly! Can daddy have that”

I coaxed and crept closer. Coaxed and crept closer. Coaxed and crept closer.

When I closed about half the distance, I began to reach my hand out for the knife. In my mind I had just negotiated the suspect into handing over his weapon and was going to receive a special commendation from the wife when she got home, if you know what I mean.

Then Killian’s smile grew large and wicked. Little man had other plans.

I recently read an article that said babies are born bad. I’m not for reinforcing that article, but an evil glint crept into this tyrant’s eyes. He pulled his hand back.


I winced. I jumped. I swore.

I’m not proud of swearing at a child, but I stand by it. That motherfuckin kid threw a knife at me.

I swore at my kid.


He THREW a knife at me!

Luckily, this one year old totally sucked at knife throwing. The knife harmlessly slid across the kitchen floor. I sprinted in, scooping up both children and carrying them away from the knife range before returning to gather weapons and break down Killian’s homemade stepping stool.

While the outcome did not involve injury and I can laugh about it, the gravity of the situation has never escaped me. I know how serious the situation was and learned from it. You could say this was the day I grew eyes in the back of my head. Obviously taking your eyes off your kid for a second can lead to disastrous consequences.
Fortunately no one was hurt in my house and it’s something I can laugh about, the knife throwing toddler. And yes, we moved the knife block.

Do you have a similar story? Have your kids ever gotten somewhere they shouldn’t? Is it wrong that after this incident I tried to sell Killian to a traveling circus as the great knife throwing toddler?



Family Photoshoot

There is a reason my kids are in all my pictures.

No, it’s not because of my unwavering love or affection for them. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids! Adore them, even! But the reason they are in my pictures is not rooted in that.

Kids are attention gold mines! Seriously, the children provide much needed confidence boosters throughout the year. Test my theory. Take a selfie with a kid. Take a selfie sans child. Watch the difference in attention you get.

/home/wpcom/public_html/wp-content/blogs.dir/194/78604684/files/2015/01/img_7038.jpg Which is cuter?

Sure, okay, most of the compliments will be directed towards the kid. I know that, I get it. So here is what you do. Write how that child is a terrible person and attach it to the picture.

“This little monster hasn’t let me sleep in three days! I love him, though!”

BOOM. Attention and praise is being focused on the one person who really needs it in the picture. Me, baby! I know some people are this far and thinking “wow, that punk rock papa is a horrible person,” but come on, am I really? Horribly honest is quite possible, but horrible? No way.

I’m doing what any and everyone else does! Go through your newsfeed! You KNOW who has a kid because that kid is in their picture or IS their picture. Why? Because they know that kids are a goldmine. No one sees a picture with a kid in it and scrolls past. I’m pretty sure you would break your scroller. Some message would come up saying, “Don’t move past this without liking or commenting, this person needs this! Don’t be an ass. There you go, hit that like button. Now you may carry on, happy scrolling!” Actually, I’m not sure what would happen. I’ve never tried to scroll past a picture of a kid. I know the rules.

I’m sure there are parents out there right now shaking their heads and saying, “NOPE! I do it because I love little Johnny! I post those pictures because of my love for him!”

OH REALLY!? Little Johnny got a Facebook where he gets to see how much his mom adores him? Little Johnny knows you love him because of all of your selfies? No, you’re doing it for the likes and the compliments. Just. Like. Me.

Another great thing is no one tells you your kid is ugly. It’s always, “How adorable!” Now, I’m not saying I’m worried my kids are ugly, but it’s reassuring to hear from people how NOT ugly my kid is. I know I wear parent goggles that make my boys more handsome than that Bradley Cooper fellow or that Magic Mike dude. Maybe you’re posting because you’re worried about Little Johnny looking like he fell from the ugly tree and hit every branch. If that’s the case I am sorry for accusing you of posting his picture for the attention and I happen to think he is quite adorable… We cool?

Some parents can get by on their own looks and I envy them. Me? No way; I’ll stick to using my kids as the little self esteem boosters they are. I spend my days clothing, feeding and nurturing them. They can pay it forward. It’s not like they hate getting their pictures taken. Sure, I might have to tickle one into an illusion of happiness. That end result though? Daddy has fifty likes on a selfie that would, under normal circumstances, get twelve likes tops. And the kids? Well, they have a dad who struts around like a proud peacock, only MY beautiful feathers are my children. Now excuse me while I go stage a loving moment with my kids.

Who am I kidding? You’re probably off to do the same.

/home/wpcom/public_html/wp-content/blogs.dir/194/78604684/files/2015/01/img_63463.jpg We are live!


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?