Out-Numbered

Before I start, I want to qualify that the love I have for my wife is infinite. Moving on... I love Giada De Laurentiis. I want to put my Meatloaf in her oven. I want to eat her Quiche. I want stuff her Cornish hen. I want to fill her Cannoli. I want to Braze her Short Ribs. I want to glaze her Donut. I want to baste her Brisket. I want to tenderize her Rump Roast. I want to eat her muffin top. I want her to strain my my Linguine. I want to sip her Citrus Cream Smoothie. I want to grease her pan. I want her to roll my Meatballs. I want to Filet her Fish. I want to warm her scones. I want to spread her Pine Nut Pesto. I want to butter her Broccoli Rabe. I want to frisk her Pollo Frito. I want to cook her Goose. I want to Jubilee her Cherry. I want to slather her Scallopine. I want to sautee her spinach. I want to Pork her Chops. I want her to squeeze my lemons. I want to fry her calamari. I want to stir her Stracciatella. And then their is this person... I have no ill will towards her. ...

In my almost six and a half years of being a Dad, I have learned and observed many things. Some of these things I have been able to utilize in my daily life. Some of the many findings are completely and utterly useless. However, I have ultimately cataloged most, if not all of the significant information in a Parenting Dictionary of sorts. I have never shared this information with anyone. Not even my beloved wife. I feel that some of my observations might be useful to new parents as well as the seasoned guardian or caregiver. Today, for reasons far beyond your comprehension, I have decided to share a small portion of this informational goodness. Today is your lucky day. Take notes, print out this post and file it away with your grandmother’s secret sponge cake recipe. I will remove this blog post in exactly 72 hours. I will bury the Parenting Dictionary in a time capsule along with my Iron Maiden Records, my Smurf figurines and my Peter Gabriel, SO painted denim jacket. Here are a few e...

The Amish are best known for their simple living, plain dress and their distain for modern conveniences. I have come to the definitive conclusion that my wife and daughters are not Amish. I also now know for absolute certain that I am not Amish. Not only are we not Amish, we are most certainly the exact opposite of the Amish. I’m also pretty sure that the Amish would hate my family and me if they were to meet us. Although that would be a pretty awesome experiment. Set up a control room somewhere with my kids and a couple of Amish kids and have them hang out for a few hours. Even though the long term effects are not easily foreseen, I’m pretty sure my daughter would have them singing Hannah Montana songs and kicking ass at Wii Tennis before they were able to say Jakob Ammann. Why am I babbling this semi-incoherent Amish nonsense? Because I can’t freaking believe how much shit my kids have. For that matter, I can’t believe how much shit most kids have these days in general. What happened...