It only takes a kid to take a dog from man’s best friend to man’s inconvenient chore.

I love my dog and always will. She is an eight-year-old beagle named Lilly. She likes long walks on the beach, really any terrain, especially ones where she leads and can follow her nose to something delightfully disgusting.

She likes to eat bones, people food, things that aren’t food but she still digests, things that aren’t digestible but still apparently worth a shot, and the occasional- nay, daily- yard turd. But she rarely goes for other dogs’ deposits so please don’t let that soil your impression of her.

The truth is, Lilly used to be the apple of our eye. We’d let her up on the couch, take her to the dog park, and even get her vaccinated. They were rich times.

Then we had a kid and it all changed.

That is, everything changed but her expectations. I could see in her big, sad beagle eyes she was incredulous she couldn’t get away with all the stuff she used to. And if she so much as snarled at the baby, she was promptly corrected with demonstrative “NOs” and our most convincing “bad girl” faces.

The thing is, when you’re trying to placate a screaming, crying, crapping, completely dependent homo sapien, it’s hard to find time to meet the canine’s needs.

Sure, we feed her and open the door for her so she can get some fresh air and not poo in our house. But dog parks? Forget it. Walks? Impossible to effectively handle a stroller while your olfactory-focused pooch obeys her nose and walks you.

But in many ways, the dog becomes just another part of the house. Like an ottoman. Or a fern. They become a fixation on the rug, a furry, lumpy, immovable obstacle we are destined to trip over. And when they are upright and wandering about, they must remind us of their needs since we are too distracted to anticipate them. They paw at their water dish or the back door as if to say, “Remember me, the other living thing in your house?”

We are tempted to feel bad about our pet’s new lot, not giving them the attention they once received. But we shouldn’t. I assure you, they are fine. The truth is, they are still doing better than 99.99% of animals on the planet.

Think about it. We have domesticated what should be a wild animal.

My dog lives inside a heated home and sleeps on a plush bed with a soft blanket draped over her. Meanwhile, her untamed relatives are curled up in a dirty den somewhere, with their only concern being staving off predators and hypothermia.

My dog wakes up and gets a bowl of safe food and cool water. If she was wild, she would have to go find, and catch, and kill, a squirrel. And if she actually snagged one that wasn’t rabid or carried some life-threatening disease, she might just save the tail and call herself Davy Crockett. She might.

Seriously, my dog gets a biscuit for sitting. Sitting gives wild dogs a chance to scratch their bugs.

Honestly, she is treated well by essentially any human who meets her. But when a wild animal gets up in our space, we are generally not cordial with it.

What I’m saying is, don’t feel so bad about what your pet is not getting. They’re getting a heck of a lot more than the zillion other creatures scraping by in the wild…even if she does have to fetch her own water.

It’s December, and I’d like to share my Christmas list so you guys can buy me stuff. I must say though, my list isn’t what it used to be. Shopping for me wasn’t too difficult then, there were plenty of thing I wanted or needed. Now, I am older and boring a don’t need much, but still need to give some kind of wish list so I don’t get seven pairs of penguin pajama pants.

So this year, here’s what I’m asking for:

Black Dress Socks- Not green socks or fancy patterned socks, but plain, boring, I-can’t-believe-my-gift-to-you-this-year-is-black-socks black socks. Of course, I don’t like black dress socks. They don’t jive with my colorful personality and they look awful without pants on. But colorful, patterned socks have one fatal flaw: you need both to match. I have a drawer full of lovely socks I can’t wear because their match is somewhere in the abyss of a hamper. So what I really need is a drawer full of black dress socks. When I lose a black sock, I won’t even realize it’s gone. There will be 19 more for me to pick from. No more wasting time figuring out what to wear. I’ll have an extra minute every morning to find a way to spill coffee on myself.

Big Crescent Wrench– I have several small crescent wrenches. They’re just big enough to look like they’ll get the job done without actually delivering. There’s nothing like wriggling under a toilet to remove a screw only to realize you have an inadequate tool. My life needs a crescent wrench worth its salt, one that will go to war with me on a Saturday morning under a toilet.

German Pens- I’m a writer but my pens stink. People tell me I need German pens. Apparently, like so many things, the Germans don’t screw around when it comes to quality writing utensils. While shopping Faber Castell’s website, I found the Pen of the Year, which was $3,000. A pen that expensive should come with a small rocket and the ability to read minds.  I’ll settle for one that produces full pen strokes and writes a sentence saying “I am fond of speaking your name.” instead of “I am fond of spanking your nome.”

Cologne– This is strange for me because I’m not really a cologne guy. I have nothing against cologne guys and appreciate good-smelling men. I myself like to smell good, but I’m more concerned with not smelling bad. I’m ok smelling like soap, or whatever men who don’t wear cologne smell like. I suppose there is something desirable about smelling like nothing and remaining anonymous. Do I want to walk by people and have them think, “Gosh that man smells good” or “Was that a man that walked by?” There are advantages to both. If my wife likes me smelling like a cologne guy, then I’m all in and need some good cologne. But if others can enjoy my presence without me releasing pungent aromas from my person, maybe I’ll continue to settle for “guy who smells a little like shower and soap.”

Well that’s it. I understand that shopping for me this year will be incredibly boring. You’re welcome to get creative and buy something not on my list that you think I’d like. Just don’t assume it’s penguin pajama pants. Because it’s not.

Have you ever been warned about something serious and not taken it seriously?

Well according to the label on my office keyboard, one can “reduce the risk of serious injury” by reading the product’s Safety & Comfort Guide.

Really? What serious injury is a keyboard capable of inflicting? We are using our fingers to press keys. I suppose I could mash a key with such velocity that I break my finger. After all, who doesn’t love to throw down a bone-crushing exclamation mark to end a sentence?

But even if this dangerous device broke my finger, it’s not a serious injury. Serious injuries make us freak out. If you’re rapidly typing and your finger comes off, you’ll freak out. Severed fingers are serious injuries. If you’re working outside and a band of squirrels mistakes your fingers for nuts and gnaws them to the bone, that’s a serious injury. Bony fingers suck and will send you to the hospital.

Of course, I’m all for reducing risk. I’ve talked before about my risk aversion and how I don’t seek thrills. But when I sit down at a keyboard, I’m not thinking, “This could be trouble. I should proceed with extreme caution.” I’m not bracing for impact, saying things to myself like, “I need to make sure I don’t die here.” If you are the kind of person looking to reduce your risk at the keyboard, you need to loosen up fast. Maybe take up smoking.

Let’s face it. We’re in a world of regulations and litigation. And when something as innocuous as a keyboard comes with a warning, then probably everything should. From now on I’ll be expecting warnings on my movie tickets (paper cuts), earplugs (clogged canals) and toast (like I need to tell you any of the number of horrible things that can happen with toast).

In fact, I’m going to leave you with a warning to conclude this blog post:

To reduce the risk of serious injury, please do not try reading my blog when you are rock climbing, operating a motorboat, fighting a large man—or large woman for that matter—sword swallowing, lighting dynamite, or pursuing ISIS. Thank you. 

Trick-or-treating may be over, but the journey to a mouthful of cavities is just beginning. No doubt your children and grandchildren have been feasting on various clumps of sugar for more than a solid week now. You’ve probably indulged yourself, bolstering your rightful reign with an oppressive “Daddy tax,” or just plain pilfering the spoils when no one’s watching.

Really, the first week of candy eating is where most of the fun is. The true champions of candy are rapidly consumed, leaving a sad assortment of losers that somehow make it on to store shelves year in and year out but are never, in fact, eaten. These pitiful sweets should be called out for the frauds that they are and save future trick-or-treaters more sadness. Given the countless array of candies, I’ve narrowed the focus on the most popular. Here are the 5 Worst Name-Brand Chocolate Candies: 

Kit Kat- Give me a break, indeed. This candy bar is marketed as heavily as any, yet eternally under-delivers. First of all, thanks for all of that chocolate—not. What a stingy, thin layer of wannabe milk chocolate we get to cover that oh-so-amazing crispy wafer, reminiscent of cardboard and bark. But hey, it’s crispy!

 

Nestle’s Crunch- How about Nestle’s crap? What an embarrassment that the largest food company in the world would produce such an uninspired turd of a candy. Like Kit-Kat with its cheap chocolate taste, it’s really what’s on the inside that counts: crisped rice. Oh what sensational delights rice has given us. Thanks for crispin’ it up at least and saving us from the temptation to dip this thing in soy sauce.

 

Three Musketeers- Ironically named after a triumvirate of heroes, this bar cannot save itself. Three Musketeers has inexplicably found a way to fill chocolate with chocolate and make it taste bad. The fluffy whipped chocolate nougat is unfortunately this candy bar’s heart and soul, serving as a stark reminder that the heart can be deceived and the soul can be damned. Time for the trio to do us a favor and fall on their own swords.

 

Tootsie Rolls- Not to be outdone, Tootsie Rolls join this chocolate charade with their own obscene version. If there is any cocoa tree factoring into the making of this “chocolate,” I’d like to grab the tree by the beans and ask him who the hell he thinks he is. Because he is
no cocoa tree, and this is no chocolate. I’ve never chewed on a brown candle but I can’t imagine it being a much different experience. People have Tootsie Rolls when there is nothing else to have.

 

Whoppers- It’s funny how malted milk balls seem to intrinsically find their way to the bottom of a trick-or-treat pail. They’ve accepted their fate as world’s worst chocolate candy. Given the choice between Whoppers and no candy, people will choose no candy. People would rather not enjoy sweets then suffer a handful of Whoppers. Seriously, they sell these things in a milk carton. Why not sell them in a trash receptacle? That way you could just throw them away once you sober up and realize what you’ve purchased. For that price you could’ve had two King Size Butterfingers yet you opted for great malt balls of hellfire. Yes, milk balls was a bad choice.

Surely I missed something more terrible. What candy do you have left that you refuse to eat?

So I’ve been thinking about what constitutes a “sharp-dressed man” and naturally have turned to Southern Rock legends ZZ Top for inspiration.

Yet as I hum through the song lyrics, I start to feel like I’m taking the wrong cues. Maybe if you’re a rock star or A-List celebrity you could get away with this attire. But I’m not sure it’s advisable for average Joes like me to start donning the suggested raiment. Perhaps you’ll agree as we have a gander at the lyrics.

Clean shirt, new shoes
And I don’t know where I am goin’ to
Silk suit, black tie
I don’t need a reason why

I can’t poke at a clean shirt. But this is really a minimum requirement for any man who’s decided to look presentable. New shoes are splendid, but how noticeable are they compared to buffed-up, old shoes? New shoes are only noticeable around people who have seen you in your aged, crappy shoes.  I can’t see this as a significant advantage.

As for silk suits and black ties, yeah, you’ll stand out. But will it be in a good or a bad way? Perhaps at a wedding or a ritzy club you’ll garner the right attention. But ZZ Top says you don’t need a reason why. So what, you gonna get all gussied up for a trip to Food Lion? Or a park? Yes, they’ll be running as fast as they can. With their children away from the untimely dressed creeper man. I’m sorry, but I’m just too average to not need a reason why-y-y.

My skepticism escalates with the song’s next few lines.

Gold watch, diamond ring
I ain’t missin’ not a single thing
And cufflinks, stick pin
When I step out I’m gonna do you in

Imagine little me with a gold watch and diamond ring on my hand. Think people wouldn’t be suspicious my arm apparel is worth more than my car? The obvious questions would be “Was that a gift?” Or “Where did you steal it?” Maybe I’m not hanging out in the right places, but I don’t see a lot of dudes with diamond rings. I thought those were for women who had been proposed to. If you ever see me with a diamond ring I propose you slap me in my moustache. (I’m assuming things have gone horribly south for me at this point.)

As for cufflinks and stick pins, it’s hard to find fault. Donning cufflinks says “screw you” to ordinary buttons and the stick pin says “I can stab my tie if I want to.” Both are pretty rebellious and cool, but I fear they wouldn’t cut it if I ditched all the other prescribed apparel.

Top coat, top hat
Well I don’t worry ’cause my wallet’s fat
Black shades, white gloves
Lookin’ sharp and lookin’ for love

No matter how nice your top coat looks, you’ll be looking like an old president when you add a top hat. Do you really want to step into a joint looking like you stepped out of a black and white film? Rather than scoring a date you’re more likely to be pegged for an Abe Lincoln impersonator. That’s cool if you’re talking to a group of school kids but will backfire with any lady who has tastes more modern than the 19th century. If you’ve gone this far with the top hat, why not just grab a cane and monocle and start hanging out on Monopoly boards?

Fat wallet? That’s a problem for guys who carry a wad of cash, which made sense before plastic cards and electronic banking. Do you ever see anyone withdraw a cash wad from their wallet anymore? They look like a drug dealer. A fat wallet is great if you want to have people question your occupation and credit history.

Everyone knows a good pair of shades can boost personal appearance. Unless you’re indoors, which is only acceptable for blind pop stars. If you’re not that, you’ll be pegged for having any number of conditions, from light sensitivity to a public offender who wishes to remain anonymous. If you’re lookin’ for love through a pair of dark sunglasses, you may find a host of creeped-out women.

And I’m really not sure when white gloves were ever a symbol of virility. Really, white gloves? Are you a mime or a cat burglar? Apparently you’re interested in not making noise, though walking into a club like a crime scene investigator may cause a bit of a commotion. You wanna know what wearing white gloves says to women? “I’d like to touch you without leaving any evidence.” Not exactly a recipe for the ladies draping themselves over you like a scarf.

The bottom line is that few people can pull off (much less afford) wearing ZZ Top’s suggested raiment. If you are rich and popular, a top hat and white gloves may be just what the party celebrates. If you’re average and unimportant, dressing like a high class pimp will certainly welcome derision and potentially get you arrested.

So, dress “smart.”

Are you ready for self-driving cars? ‘Cause they’re coming.

Perhaps you’re the type who loves being behind the wheel. You crave the rev of the engine, whipping around turns, and if you’d admit it, the flash of rage that springs up when other motorists are failing. You take pride in giving someone a deserved bird and considering the countless ways you are just a better driver than anyone else. You are a car guy (or gal).

But for the rest of us, cars are a remarkable invention which we appreciate but we mostly see as utilitarian. To us, cars are simply large pieces of metal with rubber tires and oil and stuff, and when we turn the magic key (or push the magic button for you fancy types) the conglomeration of metal starts up and takes us somewhere. That’s it. If my engine revs and I can get around a turn with the wheels staying on, I’m happier than a NASCAR fan at a KFC drive-thru.

That’s why I’m so ready for a self-driving car. The little pleasure I derive from driving comes from making it through a string of yellow lights, and that’s hardly a thrill worth mentioning. I’m ready for my car to do what cars should be doing in the first place, and that’s taking me places while I do whatever the crap I want. This is part of the American dream, for us to gain back lots of time so we can be lazier.

And just what will I do in my self-driving car? I can think of a few things.

Take a nap. What young parent has space for a nap anymore? You certainly can’t accomplish one at work or at home, which are the two places I pretty much spend 100% of my time. But a car is the perfect setting for a nap. I’ll be rockin’ the ear plugs, eye mask, jammy socks—all that crap—and be droolin’ right into my driveway.

Kiss my wife. Car trips would be great times for spousal smooching. The weather is mild, the kids are strapped in, and we have time to make out. No one can interrupt our kissing. If the kids start to make noise we’ll just crank up the Whitesnake. In fact, I’ll tell Google to do it for me.

Watch a movie. Move over kiddos. Daddy can now watch Frozen with you instead of listening to you enjoy it while I count smashed bugs on the windshield. Isn’t this amazing that road trip drives will become fun for parents? And I won’t even have to threaten to pull over. My undistracted, unlimited, in-complete-control-of-the-entire-car presence will be threatening enough.

Have a beer. Why not? Google would have things under control. I can relax with a cold one and listen to sports. If I’m driving with a buddy it would be like hanging out at the bar. “Hey man, you wanna go get a drink?” “Sure, let’s pack a cooler and hit up I-40.” For the commute home, this would be a dream. In fact, if I could have a beer and a nap, I’d easily be the best Dad ever walking through the door into Crazytown.

But I’m sure I’m just scratching the surface. What will you do in your self-driving car? 

It’s time to assess what’s really giving young adult men trouble these days: The Bro Shake.

Life used to be simple. You saw a man, you took his hand, and you shook it. One to three strong shakes. Transaction complete. But in this new era, there are a multitude of ways for men to greet each other, and it’s become downright awkward and perplexing, to the detriment of many exchanges.

Now when I go to greet another man, there’s no telling what kind of histrionics we’ll perform to acknowledge one another. If we’re meeting for the first or second time, the handshake is as certain as a hug is for your mother. We’re still kind of strangers so let’s not make this any more awkward than it already is.

The trouble comes when we men actually know and like each other, and care to welcome the other in a warm, personable way. A cold, unpassionate handshake there simply won’t do. So we resort to the option that seems best to us at the time.

One such popular option is the thumbs-clasp-then-fingers-slide-into-a-snap shake. Like diving at the Olympics, the increased degree of difficulty here yields happy rewards when properly executed, yet looks like a painful belly flop when it fails.  Some cultures and social groups pull this one off seamlessly. I on the other hand often fail to connect the thumb clasp and completely lose the chance to perform the slide and snap. Sorry about that, are you content that our hands did stuff so we can move past this butchered ritual and remain friends?

Sometimes though we just don’t care to be so warm and fuzzy. In that case we may extend the fist for a bump. A bump kinda says, “It’s good to see you but there’s no need to snuggle.” The problem with inviting a bump is that you may be inviting a world of confusion. Bumps are not highly common in most circles. If you have a room of shakers, claspers, and snappers, your fist will look like a cold, fleshy rock. Are you going to extend that and punch me in my eyebrow or is this a gesture of endearment? Then we remember you like us and aren’t belligerent toward your friends, so we adjust accordingly. The problem with that fist is you may want to go patty cake style, one bump on top, then bottom, then together. If we’re not on the same page, we will be waving fists at each other, simulating baboon interaction. If you’re willing to take that risk, let’s go for it and see what happens.

Let’s not forget alternative handshake option #3. Guys my age are still fairly active, competitive, playful, and prone to high-fiving. If we’re shooting hoops or celebrating kickball homers, then of course we’ll five away without problems. But when you bring those fives to the bar after work, you are inviting disorientation. When the high five is presented here, the handshake extender is rendered perplexed. And there’s no saving face. He will also look like a fuddy-duddy. The guy who came to the party a little too serious. The high fivers were primed for a round of Jagerbombs and you just went Mich Ultra.

Just like any communication, the employed greeting of young men is determined by the occasion, mood, and setting. With so many variations of welcome at our disposal, we are bound to look foolish from time to time in attempts to read one another’s minds and execute an impeccable embrace. But it’s no reason not to try, and a clumsy encounter is far better than one of apathy.

Several years ago, I remember watching an intriguing TV segment revealing the secrets of a couponing queen. This lady had mastered the couponing system and was essentially getting free groceries. I watched in amazement as she strolled through the grocery store, picked out her items, and revealed how each one either cost her nothing, or the store was paying her to take it. One couldn’t help but marvel when at least $100 worth of groceries was through the checkout line and the total amounted to about the cost of a Kleenex box.

My wonder was heightened by the fact that, at the time, I was on a crusade of frugality, determined to be so thrifty I could squeeze cents out of a piece of trash. I learned some crazy cost-saving techniques- everything from the ultimate guide of gaming a yard sale to how to make my own soap. I was addicted to saving money, with the fix often coming in the form of saving 37 cents on Speed Stick.

So when I saw extreme couponing in action, I was hooked. I printed and cut out e-coupons. saved junk mail and cut out those coupons, and even got my in-law’s Sunday paper so I could cut out those coupons. My life was consumed by paper clips and bar codes.

And then I enlisted my wife, our resident grocery shopper, to pioneer our clipping craze. What a delightful task to throw upon someone.

If only couponing was as simple as getting super-cheap food. What I learned early on was to be a true coupon ninja, you had to collect super cheap crappy food, and lots of it. The way to “hit it big” is getting BOGO deals with coupons on top of double coupons day on top of super sweeps on top of scheduling life around trips to the damn grocery store. And then, when it’s all said and done, you have scored seven tubes of toothpaste and a third-world-country supply of Kraft Mac-n-cheese.

Sure, the surplus is kind of nice, but where do you put it all? Your home isn’t a food bank, and unless you’ve knocked out a wall to extend your pantry, all that extra crap is going into the garage. Forever. You might go grab a tube of paste in like four months, but chances are you’ll have obtained 17 more by then from another insane coupon expedition.

Yet, the most important aspect to couponing is not the effect it has on your wallet or your garage, but your time. Great couponing requires great effort. If you are willing to watch TV every night with a pair of scissors or keep a grocery price log with you at all times, then you are fully committed to the cause.

But at what cost? The problem with couponing is that it produces nothing. And if there is something you like to do more than couponing (dear goodness let’s hope so) or something you do that you’re particularly good at, have you wondered why you’re forsaking that for $2.35 off a can of baked beans?

It’s not that couponing in itself is bad. Thriftiness is an admirable trait and is a good way to be a worthy steward of resources. But when we are hyper-focused on being consumers and taking what we can get, we rob the world of what it really needs from us; something only we can give.

Maybe it’s the piano. Or blogging. Or embroidery. It doesn’t matter. It’s whatever you can create and give to someone that they would’ve never received otherwise.

That’s worth much more than whatever you can save at the grocery store. In fact, it’s priceless.

Today I saw a car this bumper sticker on the back of someone’s car:

Now it may be true that the stick family car stickers have gotten out of hand. It’s one thing to add a kid, but when you also have stickers for your baby, your cats, your parakeet and your mule, it’s gone too far. If your stick family expands the length of your rear windshield, you have doled out way too much cash on stickers.

But I’m not gonna be a stick family sticker hater. In fact, I have to get back to the car that had the anti-stick-family sticker. This same car had three separate zombie stickers on its rear windshield. Whoa. You’re banging on stick families when you have an obvious obsession with living dead people, who by the way are fake.

Such irony. You don’t like innocent depictions of families but you’re all for fictional, fantasy-land man eaters. Forget those happy people who take great pride and affection in their brood. Let’s celebrate the pride you take in readying yourself for the horrible event that will never happen. Oh the humor of vehicular homicide versus the serious business of the Zombie Apocalypse. Truly sir you have eloquently navigated the torrents of discovering life’s meaning and firmly planted your feet on the island of nobility.

Truth be told, we Speights are kind of a real-life stick family. And when the zombies come, let’s just say they won’t be running themselves over to devour us.

 

I believe in family dinners.

One of the most formative times for a family is when everyone sits down at the end of the day and has a meal together. Yet, I often wonder what great things are taking place at my family dinners, which include two little kids who are not interested in a civil meal.

Our family dinners are a frenzied mess of distractions, grievances, laughs, timeouts, lessons, screams and that magical moment when everyone is chewing on their chicken at the same time, like a standstill before the next cannon fires.

Basically, we enjoy four courses on most nights.

Course One- Meal rejection. Ahh, nothing like cooking a splendid meal for an ungrateful human. It turns out the time we spend cooking meals happens to be indirectly proportionate to how much the kids like it. Slave over the oven three hours making chicken cordon bleu and broiled asparagus and you can bet your little food critic will send it back to the damn kitchen. Take 13 seconds to warm up some nasty, old, ninja turtle mac-and-cheese and they’ll woof it down like it’s a feast of the gods. Get that nutritious, colorful, balanced meal out of my face, Pops. Tonight I’m craving imitation cheese and high fructose corn syrup.

Course Two- Painfully choppy conversations. There are really two conversations taking place at the table. One is your with your kids, who say or scream whatever they need or whatever is on their mind. The other is between you and your spouse, essentially a race to divulge something meaningful before the next interruption. There’s nothing like having the climax of a stupendous story halted mid-sentence by the little one informing you they don’t like the beets. On the flip-side, I have grand intentions to listen well, but for some reason get distracted by random announcements like “let’s go the museum tomorrow” and “I have to go poopy.” Most conversations end with the empty promise to “tell the rest later,” while we know good and well our brains will be quite fried by then.

Course Three- Spill management. The spills will happen. It’s just a matter of how quickly you can pick the vessel up before you have a really soggy chair on your hands. Kid cups can only prevent so much before they are turned upside down and purposefully poured out on the table to create fun puddles that can subsequently be spread out and splashed upon. The saving grace for us comes in the form of a gluttonous beagle who never hesitates to lick up anything.

Course Four- Negotiations. If it weren’t for our intervention, kids would just eat candy and cookies until they exploded. So we strive for giving them real, nutritious food. But to get them to eat real, nutritious food takes incredible determination and savvy on our part. Dinner becomes a test to see if they can eat enough good food to overcome the unhealthy treat you’ve promised for the meal’s conclusion. The meal starts with general suggestions about what food to consume, and progresses (or regresses) to the point where you are literally bean counting with them until an agreement is reached on what it will take to get the treat.

Truthfully, it’s all about expectations. If you want a pleasant meal and stimulating discussion, you might go insane. If you’re anticipating countless interruptions and general insanity, you just might relish the joys of witnessing your kids be kids.

……

Bonus: Here’s a fictional but fairly accurate representation of our typical dinner conversation.

Danielle: How was your day today, honey?
Me: It was good. I—
4-Year-Old: Daddy, daddy, daddy. I made a walrus washer today. It goes like this: “Pssshshs, ping-ping, wagga-wagga.” Wanna see? Wanna see? Come see.
Me: After we finish dinner. So yeah honey, I had a lot of meetings. But I did get lunch with—
2-Year-Old: Knock knock.
Me: Who’s there?
2-Year-Old: Baby.
Me: Baby who?
2-Year-Old: Baby and a banana peel. Hehe.
Me: Oh man, good one…How was your day honey?
Danielle: Not bad, we had fun at the park with Jenny and her baby. Jenny was telling me about her Mom—
4-Year-Old: Daddy, Ms. Jenny’s baby was really um, um, what was it Mommy?
Danielle: Gassy?
4-Year-Old: Yeah, gassy. He had a lotta poots so I gave him my truck so he’d feel better.
Me: So how’s Jenny’s Mom doing?
2-Year-Old: Geen beans. Mo geen beans, peez.
(Danielle rises to get more green beans.) Not so great. She just moved into a hospice. They think—
4-Year-Old: What’s a hospiss?
Me: It’s a place that takes care of people who are older…I’m sorry to hear that. I think—
2-Year-Old: Cookie now?
Danielle: Finish your turkey and green beans.
2-Year-Old: Uhhhh. I wan cookie now.
Danielle: Finish your food.
2-Year-Old: No!!! I wan get dowhowhowhowhown!
Me: Sorry, you have to finish your geen beans. I mean green beans.
4-Year-Old: Yeah Ella, finish your beans and you can have a cookie.
2-Year-Old: I no wan too!
Danielle: So anyway.
Me: Yeah.
4-Year-Old: Daddy, daddy, can I show you my walrus washer?
2-Year-Old: GEH—MEE—DOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWNNNNN!!!
Danielle: I’ll tell you more later.