If you've ever spent any time on Twitter, you know that almost 80% of what people comment about is interesting to only 10% of the people reading. My tweets are no different, but one morning I tweeted about blueberry muffins hot from the oven. I didn't expect any sort of response, because how is that interesting to anyone other than Little Bear with her paws on the real thing? To my surprise someone responded, because they also made muffins that morning. Even more surprising, it was a guy. A stay-at-home-writer-guy. I did a double-take of his profile picture. A tattooed-stay-at-home-horror-erotica-writing-guy to be exact.
As we chatted about writing, he mentioned having to defrost something for dinner. I was glad this was through Twitter, because I had to snicker a little bit. Not that I don't think men should cook, it's just that I'm unused to hearing such a domestic concern coming from a man. Oh crap, that doesn't sound any better does it. ANYWAY, we ended up in a debate about which is more effective on wood floors, a broom or the vacuum. (Chris insists on using a broom, and I was like, are you sweeping out the cave in olden times? No! We have an amazing invention that actually sucks up dirt. He remains unconvinced.)
We've been friends ever since. So when he asked me to write a short story snippet for his blog, I was flattered even though our writing styles are very different. I sent him a writing sample and then directed him to this blog. I believe the words he used were, "so sweet I got a toothache." And then he asked me to sew him a dress. I suppose in comparison to the dark things I write about, my blog is quite a contrast. Even though this type of writing is not his usual, he was sporting enough to write a blog post for me in return. Luckily he had his children around to help him with the pictures of domestic bliss.
I’m a MAN, and I don’t mean that strictly in the “I go pee-pee standing up” kind of way. I started working at age twelve digging graves in 100-degree heat and mowing the lawn in a cemetery. This was back when child labor was considered character building and the only authority figure was cop who swung by at noon to drink beer with the older guys. I’ve had calluses on my hands since that first summer back in the cemetery, and they have been a permanent fixture ever since. I don’t use oven mitts; I can pull a pan from the oven without burning myself. I am a MAN.
I’ve had a lot of jobs. Let me rephrase that, A LOT of jobs. I worked in restaurants, became a Chef, a manager, a corrections officer, a roofer, an electrician, a chimney sweep, a mason, a plumber, a framer, a truck driver, a private investigator, an astronaut and a peach farmer. OK, I was never an astronaut, but I could have been. I was also a mechanic, spending a lot of years working on cars and heavy equipment. Real man kinds of things.
I drink, I fight, I fish and listen to rock music. I’m a guy. I have a big beard and I can still bench press twice my body weight. I have to keep reminding myself of this fact. I don’t do any of the manly things I used to, like working. Now I stay at home and watch the kids and do the laundry and the dishes. I am a writer, struggling at making a living at it, but a writer nonetheless. This is my first summer doing it full time, and my kids are here with me doing their best to distract me.
I got laid off from my last mechanics job on Christmas Eve, six months ago. That’s six months with no work. It tends to warp the mind a little and makes me feel like less of a man. I’ve used duct tape on a compound fracture once damn it! Now I spend my day making lunches and dinners and dancing around the house to Mel Torme and talking to the dogs. Not manly at all.
When the incorrigible Amy asked me to write a guest spot for her blog the first thing I said was “I don’t know how to sew.” I love her blog. Although I never met a squirrel I didn’t like (an obvious point of contention between us) I found everything she said to be witty and interesting, and I thoroughly enjoyed every post. How cute is her daughter? Can’t you just see her practicing those angry bear faces in the mirror? The thing is, Amy is nice. She is a nice sweet girl who does nice sweet girl things.
I, on the other hand, am the opposite of nice. I write horrible things that make my grandmother cry. I spend my day writing about the things people don’t talk about. When I speak, people look at me like they just stepped on something Amy’s bear isn’t allowed to touch in the backyard. What could I possibly have in common with such a nice girl?
Oh yeah, we’re both housewives.
I get up at 7 a.m. with the wife. She gets ready for work; I get the kids ready for school. (Of course that was before summer, but our vacation just started and I have no funny stories about that…yet). I feed them and make sure they don’t leave the house in dirty underwear. I make sure they have their lunches and homework.
At 7:30 they walk out the door. I lock it behind them and laugh maniacally to myself. Freedom! Coffee gets poured and the day’s first cigarette gets lit. The computer comes on and the music comes on and gets turned up. Then I write. I spent the next 6 hours writing the things that nice girls like Amy would blush and walk away from. At 1:30 I jump in the shower and I am out the door by 2:00. Kids get out at 2:30 and we are home by 3:00. I make them leave their uniforms in the laundry basket (they go to Catholic school- ironic, I know) and I let them grab a snack. Then it’s homework and then chores until dinner.
I go over their homework and make sure everything is done that needs doing and everyone understands their work. I may not be the brightest or the best father in the world but none of my kids have ever stuck a Lego in their nose far enough to make them forget their ABC’s. I’m proud of that.
While they are doing homework and chores I wash the dishes and get dinner ready. I run up and down the stairs washing laundry because no matter how hard I try there is still more to wash. Same with the dishes. We used to have a dishwasher but it broke. Repeatedly. I kept it alive until it was nothing but Frankenwasher; a crazy conglomerate of duct tape, tubing, wires and various assorted parts I stole from everything including an old washer that I couldn’t keep running anymore. I got ten years out of the washer and nearly eight out of the dishwasher. Eventually things die. I shot them both and gave them a Viking funeral, lighting them on fire and sending them off in the pool. Ironically we don’t have a pool anymore either.
After chores (for me and my kids) the wife comes home and we have dinner. A nice wholesome meal in which I force my kids to eat the healthy things I made as I sat in front of the TV. My wife talks about her day and I pretend to listen (What? I’m a guy, remember? Only difference is I admit that I pretend to listen.) Then I head off to the computer to write some more and play on Twitter and respond to e-mails. Then it’s off to bed where I sleep with a Great Dane lounging across me.
I have three sons, so my life is pretty easy. It’s not that boys are easier than girls or that they don’t whine and complain or act out. They’re kids, that’s what they do regardless of sex (or more accurately because of sex, otherwise there wouldn’t be kids). The difference comes in the way you can handle them.
If they whine I mock them and call them girls. If they cry I mock them and call them girls. If they act out I beat on them. When they behave I beat on them. The difference? I call it “playing” when they are being good. I am so proficient at making this distinction that they come to me for their beatings when they are behaving.
Don’t get me wrong; I am not abusive in any way. When my kids say they fell down the stairs or walked into a door that’s because they actually did. That happens more to my middle son. He is the kid that fell down in the MIDDLE OF THE WOODS and got a piece of rebar (metal pole for use in concrete. I have to remember this is a sewing and baking blog.) shoved two inches into his leg. The kid tripped over his feet while running and managed to find the only piece of metal for miles. He’s just lucky like that.
The other advantage of having boys is that when they fall off their bikes or crash into something while acting like complete idiots I can remind them “chicks dig scars” and they look appraisingly at the wound and then rush off to show someone the blood and torn flesh with pride.
My parenting is different from most other people. Here is the crazy difference; I actually TALK to my kids. I know them pretty well, and when something is bothering them they come to me with it. Their problems are getting more complex as they get older. My oldest is thirteen going on thirty-five, my middle is eleven, and my youngest is six.
My oldest son is the most mature and capable kid I have ever met. He cooks and cleans and handles his homework without being told. He does his chores and helps out without being asked. I swear he is ready to get his own place. He is a tall, good-looking kid covered in thin, wiry muscle. He plays basketball and football and lives the rest of his life on the iPad his aunt bought him. He is smart and witty and caring. I did a great job with him. I can’t look at him without feeling an overwhelming sense of pride.
My middle son is ready to be a frat boy. He already acts like he is one, minus the drinking and womanizing. OK, honestly, just minus the drinking. He is incredibly accident-prone. In fact, (and I swear this is true) he fell down the stairs as I was writing this. He is built thick and stocky, and he is the tough guy of the family. He wrestles and plays football. (I coach wrestling) He takes after me. He argues and makes things difficult, but he’s also the sweetest kid ever. He will hold a door open for everyone when we go out, not just for the family but for every person walking towards the building for 500 feet, and he is the first to volunteer to help. He loves little kids and helping people. He is like the sour patch commercials; he does something nasty and then follows it up with something sweet.
My youngest, or Junior Captain Underpants, is the cuddly one. He always smiles and laughs (at least when he isn’t fighting with his brothers) and he has the brightest sweetest eyes you’ll ever see. He is gorgeous. I hear it all the time. He loves being in his underwear, especially his purple Hulk Underoos. I literally had to wrestle that underwear off him to get them into the wash. He rushed through the house screaming “you’re creepy!” as he cupped his little boy parts. While I was washing the purple underwear he walked around in his older brothers boxer-briefs. They didn’t come close to fitting, but he insisted on only wearing those until his were washed and dried.
Now it’s not all sunshine and roses here, although I do have some very impressive rose bushes. We have our trials and tribulations, our fights and issues. But through most of it I am able to prove that Dad knows EVERYTHING. I’m like a living breathing version of the Internet. Just without the spam and porn. Actually, just without the spam.
I had a very close friend suggest that I write a book on parenting. I am seriously considering it. I have a wealth of wisdom to share like: (*authors note – I spent fifteen minutes staring at the cursor trying to think of some wisdom to share.) Fire is hot: why you should brand your kids when they’re young. I’m kidding. Really.
Since this is the nicey-nice Amy blog full of rainbows and puppies I figure I should end with some kind of househusband/wife kind of thing.
Easy ham glaze: great for slow roasting or grilling pork chops
1 cup Coke or Pepsi
1-cup brown sugar
1 can of pineapple (Rings or chunks)
½ cup maraschino cherries and juice (stems off)
Tsp salt
Tsp garlic powder
Tsp onion power
Dash red pepper flake
¼ cup honey
Put all ingredients in blender and set to liquefy for 20 seconds
Pour glaze on ham and let marinade for 24 hours in refrigerator. Cook in roasting pan and baste every 15 minutes.
Or grill pork chops until done, then brush on glaze and allow to sit on grill for 30 seconds each side. Add a little more glaze to top when serving.
I would like to say thank you so much to Amy for allowing me the opportunity to put something up on her blog. And it was something, wasn’t it?
Chris writes erotic horror (with explicit adult themes) at horrorwritingdaddy.blogspot.com and has two novels for Kindle here and for Nook here.
Many thanks, Chris, for sharing your day in the life. (You know I'm right about the vacuum, don't you?)
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