Look, let’s not argue about who has been more busy. You’ve been up for 32 hours saving babies, and I’ve been hard at work creating my “Ladies of CNBC” bracket competition. It’s a wash.
Friday after 5PM, trapped at birthday party full of four/five-year-olds, zero alcohol in sight. Send help.
“When will Daddy be an old man?” . . .”Was Jesus born?” . . . “Can fleas jump THIS far?” – Questions my son just asked the Magic 8 Ball.
Send help. Trapped in the movie Epic. Kids not down with my plan to walk out in disgust at its mind-numbing mediocrity. Don’t know how much longer I can hold out. They ate all the popcorn. Repeat: no popcorn.
I don’t always play pickup basketball games with teenagers while watching my kids on the playground. But when I do, I foul the crap out of them.
My daughter has required that I think more about geometry in the past two weeks for her 5th grade math project than I did during an entire year of high school geometry.
It’s hard to quantify the satisfaction you feel upon realizing that you’re past the point in life when anyone would think to suggest that you float down a river in an inner tube with a chest of beer and/or box of Franzia between you.
Just as your youngest begins to get easier, your oldest begins to get harder.
Listen Mr Opposing Counsel, the fact that I don’t know your name, or the name of your client, or what your client is complaining about doesn’t change my confidence that you have no case. So I suggest you voluntarily dismiss your claims to save me the trouble of actually learning what they are.
“Dad, I am *not* in here to find the bag of cookies” – my son. Worst. Liar. Ever.
I was willing to pick up the dry cleaning until she didn’t laugh at my joke about how Bane shops at Burlington Coat Factory.
I just found myself asking my kids if they’re part of “Team Parent” or “Team Problem” – I have now eclipsed every ridiculous thing that my mother ever said.
I’ve got a great idea! We’ll go to the playground with all that awesome equipment and you kids can spend most of the time climbing on me.
Daughter: “Why is there water all over the floor?”
Son: “I was playing a pouring game which became a spilling game.”
It’s your turn to pick the song and your daughter sarcastically asks if it’s going to be Strutter by Kiss and you realize two things: (1) your daughter is becoming a smart ass, and (2) she knows you were going to play Strutter by Kiss.
If you look at the first slide, you’ll see that it has just one bullet point, and if you read that bullet point, you’ll see that it’s an explanation as to why I didn’t prepare any other slides.
“Warriors, come out to play-ay” – me, starting bedtime with the kids.
To the outside observer, this could appear to be less a marriage and more a joint venture dedicated to the unwitting accumulation of baskets.
There’s got to be some version of PTSD attributable to regularly eating dinner with four young kids.
After eleven and a half years of parenting, you might think that I wouldn’t be the dumb ass that reads The Wolves In The Walls at bedtime. But you’d be wrong.
You play The Rolling Stones once, over a month ago, and you’re still hearing your three-year-old singing his own version: “Daddy Can’t Always Get What He Wants . . .”
I just watched my eleven-year-old daughter lecture my thirty-nine-year-old wife about the inappropriateness of her costume party outfit. The mind reels
Every day my horoscope says the same thing: “While climbing into your bed in the middle of the night, your son will knee you in the balls.”
“Hey Dad, knock knock.”
“Who’s there? Is it your real father? Because no son of mine would come at me with a knock knock joke.”
If I had to do it all over again, I probably would read somewhat fewer Piers Anthony novels.
Whoa whoa whoa! Who told you that you could listen to A Prairie Home Companion? That’s gonna suck all the funny right out of you before it’s even had a chance to develop.
Wake to a heated argument over who gets to give you a “soothing scalp massage” that you don’t want.
Note to self: the first text to your wife on Valentine’s Day should not be a complaint about the fact that the kids are out of uniform again, followed by a request for her assistance in getting the Tahoe over for a brake job.
“Okay, I’m off the phone. If we leave right now we just have time to get you to your lesson and – WHY ARE YOU NAKED??”
No, I’m not prepared to “take an action item on that deliverable,” but if you’d like to speak English and ask me to “do” something, I’d be delighted to help.