Home Defense!

By Mr. Rogers

Ahhh, Snow bound. Outside the snow is piled up in drifts up to 18 inches, but inside it is cosy and warm. The pantry is stocked, Christmas cookies are plentiful, and the children have plenty of new amusements to keep them busy and happy. Everything was perfect until...

"You need to shovel the driveway", she says. "Do we really need to?" I ask (Surely it will melt eventually). "We need to be able to get out", says my perfect and practical wife. Okay, I suppose she is right. But as I head to get my coat and hat, it occurs to me that if we are able to get out then "THEY" will be able to get in.

I am talking about the hungry hoards. The hundreds of people who unwisely chose to ignore the forecasts and did nothing to prepare for current house bound conditions. Our well stocked home will be an irresistible target. A clear driveway would simply announce that this is a well prepared, well stocked home ripe for the picking.

Visions of the cold and hungry mobs roaming the streets to prey upon those of us who had the wisdom to prepare for the worst filled my mind. My wife was right we should have a way out but adequate defenses must be raised to prepare for the inevitable attacking hoards.

I knew that on my own I could easily defend two, if not three, sides of my home from attack, but that would not be enough. Mrs. Rogers had no stomach for combat and as such could only be relied on to provide material support and to assist the wounded from within the home. To whom could I turn for assistance in the coming conflict. I needed individuals who in battle would be vicious, relentless, and possess that touch of cruelty that is sadly necessary in war. My little minions were the obvious choice.

Being only children they could not openly take on the enemy and hope to over come them. But they didn't need to destroy our foes, only harrass them for I had yet another ally in this battle. The bane of armys far greater than any I would face.... winter itself. It would be my most valuable ally. If we could but survive the siege then the winter would do the rest (starving and freezing them into submission). But my little minions would need a fortress from which to engage the enemy. It should have thick walls, and a underground bunker in which seek refugee. It should be tall, as the higher ground always has the advantage. And it would be made out of the most available resource I had handy.... Snow!

So what did you all make with your kids in the snow this Christmas?

Fear and Loathing in Omaha

10 Stay At Home Dads (SAHDs) from the KC area recently attended the National SAHDs conference in Omaha. For this first time attendee, it was an amazing experience. It was three days filled with fun, bonding, and the sharing on knowledge and experiences that will enrich our roles as SAHDs. So I offer to you, fellow SAHDs and SAHD groupies, two takes on the whole experience.

At Home Dads' Convention in 40 words:

Dads, steak, beer, football, planes, bombs, big planes, mexican food, beer, gambling (lost only 23 cents!), bacon!, research, hairstyling, spread the word, 3 year-olds are a pain, feminism, praise-consequences-consistency, tie-dyed apples, networking, beer, football, beer, missing the family, and unity.

Reflections from a newbie:

Never have I felt so instantly connected to a group of people before. Sure, we've all made a choice that is outside the norm. But what unites us is more than our societal role and genetic make up. It's the struggles we face on a day to day basis: feeding our kids nutritious meals, dressing them and styling their hair in a socially acceptable way, making an acceptable dent on the honey-do list, taking care of the health and well being of our kids and ultimately ourselves. They are concerns that most parents have. It's just that we've volunteered to be the primary parent responsible for these tasks in our family. And we're men. And so when we meet, there is a comfort and an understanding in knowing that we are not alone in the challenges that we face. We may do things differently, and that's OK. Oh, and even though we're the primary care giver in the family, we can still like beer, and football, and not have to check our testosterone at the door.

The Battle For Fatherhood Dominance, Part 2

It was dire my friends, dire. Looking at the board was like looking into your own demise. The Politician had control of 80% of the world, with only Africa and my little Australia untouched. No one had heeded my warnings and it happened the only way that it could have happened.

But I was still alive and spoiling for a fight. I talked to the Gamer. Let us put our differences aside my old adversary. Separately we are doomed but together perhaps we can change the course of this war. Turn and fight my friend, fight for everything you hold dear.

He would not. He was not convinced. It is often this way with the power hungry and delusional. The truth was there but he refused to see it. At that moment I could have wiped him off the face of the board and I considered it. But again, Risk is more than just tactics. It’s about people. And in that moment, I decided that the course of action that I would take was the only one that I could take. If you would not hear my words of peace, dear Gamer, if you slap away my hand of friendship, so be it. I will show you through my actions my commitment.

At that moment, I started the greatest march ever seen in the board game of Risk. 1000 feet with 1000 dreams marched. Victory or death, there were no other options. The ground shook, the heavens rumbled and the women quivered. If others lacked the courage, then so bit it. From Australia we marched. Through the steppes of the Mongol empire we marched, conquering as we went. Into India we slaughtered, up to the communist block we freed the people. We bypassed the Gamer. If he wanted to see what kind of men we were, then we would show him.

We made the leap to Greenland and pushed on. We swept over the land like the bubonic plague, crushing each hotspot of resistance offered by the Politician. We steamrolled through the East Coast and then exploded through the Midwest. We turned north and retook Alaska. We erected a monument to those fallen and then we turned our attention once again south. In the west coast we threw the invaders into the sea. My army was unstoppable. When the Politician rolled 5’s, we rolled 6. When he put up a barricade, we burst through it like a bloody spear. We could not be stopped.

We faced off with his South American Army, the main force of his empire. They could not avoid the onslaught brought to there doorstep. When it was all done, the Politicians army lay in tatters, strewn about on board like a strippers nurse’s outfit on buffet night. We had marched from one end of the map to the other. It was a march that would have made General Sherman proud. It made the blitzkrieg look like a Sunday stroll. The Politician was not defeated, but he was severely weakened I had effectively taken away every major army that surrounded the Gamer, giving him the only chance he would ever get, if only he would believe. If only he would have faith.

He did not. The politician is wily and has skills. To underestimate him is to sign your own death warrant. He rallied his troops and organized his reinforcements. He then took out his vengeance on the Gamer. Very calmly and methodically the Politician wiped the Gamer’s forces off the board like crumbs from a plate. The politician had erased the memory of every single player from the game, with one lonely exception. And now he turned his attention to that exception.

Like a scourge he came and like a badger I defended. I lost hope, I lost faith. In my moment of darkness I questioned if I should go on now or just open my torso to his bloody conquest. But I said before that the game of Risk is more than just about tactics. It’s about more than just strategy. I wanted to concede but the ghosts of the vanquished allies would not let me. Yes, the game is also about people and their memories.

“Fight on!” whispered Mr. Rogers. “Yes, to the end!” The Teacher said. “Anyone have anymore chips left?” The Hippie asked. I did not have any more chips. But I did have some fight left in me.

Wave after wave I defended. Again and again I gave ground but inflicted heavy casualties on the aggressors. Like the Spartans at the hot gates I drove back the Persian horde. And then the politician made a mistake. He split his forces. Sun Tzu, I know thee well. His split forces could not erase me from the map, although they tried. Now it was my turn. Opportunity, that fickle mistress, had arrived at my pad without any panties on. How could I refuse her?

I began my counter offensive. No mercy, no prisoners. We traded blows, punch for punch. Every move made, every move countered. Back and forth, each inflicting damage, each taking it and then asking for more. The Politician and I, locked in a bloody struggle for more than just the Risk game, this was the struggle of Fatherhood dominance.

But my army, fueled by the righteousness of our cause, rallied and would not be pushed back any further. Coordinated, we attacked everywhere at once impaling the dreams of the vanquished upon my pikes. The Politicians world grew smaller and smaller while mine grew larger and larger. The urging of my fellow players at the beginning, seeing them wiped out without mercy, my trying to convince the Gamer to join my cause, my heroic march across the board: all of it went through my mind. In the end there was blood and carnage. In the end there were screams and cries. In the end there was destruction and chaos. In the end, there was victory.

The Politician had been vanquished and my army stood alone upon the Risk board. Tired and hurt but united on the board of victory. 6 of us started and only 1 remained. It had been a long road. A road where friendships were tested and chips were eaten. Beers were consumed and wives went to bed. There will be other challenges and other challengers. The Teacher, The Hippie, Mr. Rogers, The Gamer, The Politician and myself all fought for ultimate control of a child’s board game. Just a board game and yet, something much much more.

The Battle For Fatherhood Dominance, Part 1

They all should have listened to me, that much is clear. But they didn’t and most of their carcasses litter the battlefield with the buzzard’s getting the more juicy parts. Yes, they should have listened to me.

My strategy was as sound as as old as the game of Risk itself. Fortify Australia. One way in, one way out. My armies would die for me to the last man. Some called them fanatics, barbarians. Little plastic men with little plastic minds. I called them Legion. They would unleash hell and horror on the battlefield, driving my opponents ashes into the board game itself.

Mr. Rogers and the Hippie both tried to control N. America from the beginning, ignoring the rest of the board, forgetting about the power of Europe or the rich mines of Africa. Had the cold war taught them nothing over the last 50 years? Mutually assured destruction, making it easier for 3rd world terrorists to come in and take over our beloved country. The cry of “Wolverine” would be heard no more.

In Western and Easter Europe dwelt the Teacher, a newer member to be sure but did he hold some ancient wisdom? Perhaps. Perhaps not. If he did he would need all of his cunning if he was to fight off the attack coming from his south. The Gamer had set camp in all of Africa and his intentions were clear from the start: Go North to the rich bounty of armies that holding Europe commands.

I was not worried about any of these players. You could easily see the chaos that was about to erupt and the only thing that comes from chaos is the annihilation of all those who try to control it. They would blindly kill each other without seeing who the real enemy was even though it was close enough to peep in their windows as they got undressed. In South America the Politician roamed freely, unchallenged. His boarders heavily defended, it’s inner secrets heavily guarded. He was poised to launch multiple attacks in multiple directions. Burn and pillage his way through the game, becoming stronger with each captured territory. In my mind’s eye I could see the outcome, I could see each maneuver, each roll of the die. Eventually he would end up at my doorstep and I only had hope that my group of patriots could drive him back.

“Brothers!” I screamed. “Can you not see the threat poised directly to your south and west? The Great Satan has arisen and means to consume you all in fire and ash! Unite my brothers! Forget your petty squabbles! Unite and defend our freedom!” I say again, they did not listen to me.

With a lust for power and an all consuming greed for control, Mr. Rogers and the Hippie began their struggle for North America. Again and again they attacked, neither gaining an advantage but only proving that little plastic soldiers can die a hero’s death. 40 armies became 30. 30 became 20. 20 became a handful. They had decimated themselves, leaving only a token force in all of North America. The Hippie retreated to Alaska choosing that place to make his last stand while Mr. Rogers went to Japan and I offered him my protection. And the Politician? He waited. Silently.

In Europe, the teacher attempted in vain to hold off the advances of the Gamer coming up from the dark reaches of the Congo. Like a 16 year old zeroing in on a drunk cheerleader, he was relentless and a bit handsy.. The Gamer had a good home base and a nice little fatwa going in the subcontinent. But he had no objectives, no direction to point his force. Into Europe he would venture, then stop short of victory and pull his men back. Into Asia he went where my fantastic fanatics pushed him back. But he ignored the Politician, right next door and growing more powerful. And the Politician? He waited. Silently.

The Teacher was desperate and his forces were quickly diminishing. I offered him sanctuary in East Asia as well. I set a circle around The Teacher and Mr. Rogers giving them the protection at the level that they haven’t seen since their mother’s held them in her bosom. I did this not only because I am merciful and kind, but because I know that the board game of Risk is more than just strategy and tactics. It’s also about people and this was perhaps my secret knowledge that would, if used correctly, allow me to defeat the scourge in South America. With my blessing the Teacher and Mr. Rogers unleashed their minions back into Europe, trying to persuade by force where diplomacy had failed, that the Gamer should renounce his ways and attack the Politician immediately. In the meantime, I used the extra time bought to slowly grow my empire. And the Politician? He waited. Silently.

In the cold of the night, hidden in Alaska, the Hippie tried to replant his soldiers but it appeared futile, the ground could not be sown. Supplies were running low, moral was on the brink of mass suicide and desertions were common. The Kool-Aid was being prepared but they never even had the chance to drink it. A rumble in the south, a scream by the gate. The Politician was on the move. He was silent no more. Like an uncaring tidal wave crashing on the shores he consumed all before his path. Up through the Rio Grand Valley, into the heartland of America he swept virtually unopposed. Taking a detour to Greenland and then back into North America The Politician came, unstoppable until he reached the hot gates of Alaska and the Hippie. I wish I could say it was a valiant defense. I wish I could write of the bravery and sacrifice. I wish I could tell you of the Alamo like stand the Hippie made. But I cannot. It was over before the first breath screamed a warning. The Hippie was no more.

The Politician was not finished and would not be finished until all bowed to him on bended knee. Using the Bearing Straights he swept into Northern Asia and then south to confront Mr. Rogers. That lovable Mr. Rogers who just wants to make arts and crafts was being besieged and I could not help him. But his stand was valiant and he took many a men to the grave with him. But in the end, the force opposing him was just to strong. Mr. Rogers joined the Hippie in destruction and the prophecy was complete.

The Teacher was now being pushed on all sides. His Asian force went with a whimper but his Eastern Block army held there own for a little while until cold and hunger took them. He was eaten alive by the Gamer and by the Politician. Let his name be sung and put into ballads of old. He was in a better place now and the mortal world could no longer hold him.


To Be Continued.................

Cell Phone Eulogy

I did not know Father Hitman's wonderful and glorious Touch Pro cell phone and as such I may not be qualified to speak on it's recent demise. I did not know of it's many applicatoins. I did not know it's smooth and silky touch screen. It may have been like stroking the hair of God, a warm lover's touch with the deepest intimacy. I did not know any of these things, but I do know cell phone loss.

I know of the pain and confusion when a cell phone moves on to that big Sprint store in the sky. I know of the hurt and the feeling of abandonment, that same hurt that resides in your heart forever. Every button after that feels different, like an accidental caress of the stranger on the street rather than the knowing fell of what you are used to. Yes, I know these things brothers and maybe that's why I can see the pain behind Father Hitman's eyes more than the rest of you.

Given my daughter's destructive nature I have known many a cell phone and I have lost them all. Even my current one has a cracked screen thanks to the awesome destructive power that is my mongo. I know the hurt! Yes! I KNOW THE PAIN!

And I know bravery when I see it.

We told Father Hitman not to climb that cliff. We told him dammit, but the man wouldn't listen. We told him that flip flops were not appropriate attire for cliff climbing. But he didn't listen, because he is Father Hitman. It's in his nature, he's a free spirit.

It's that same free spirit that came tumbling down Tryst Falls, landing with a mighty "UMPH!" When the rest of us turned and saw nothing but feet and ass, we knew that this was going to be bad. He was up 8 feet if it was a foot.

We ran over to see if he had brained himself, broke a leg or possibly even shattered his thousand dollar camera.

"I had to get the picture, I had to get the picture, I had to get the picture" is what he was mumbling as we came to him and pulled him off the ground.

He seemed ok, bleeding in a couple of places but that was about it. Can I get an amen. We did a status check. Blood minimal. No broken bones. Camera working.

Then he pulled the cell phone out of his pocket.

The back of the phone was popped off, a big dent in it. The battery lay on the side like guts hanging out of a tour guide that was mauled by a lion. The screen was black.

He had it in his back pocket and when many an electronic device would have fled, texting in terror, the HTC Touch Pro stood it's ground and took the majority of the impact from the fall.

And now it had paid the price.

With trembling hands and a tear in his soul, Father Hitman attempted to put the phone back together. Caressing each piece like one would caress fine cashmere, desperately forcing pieces back together that didn't want to get back together.

He pushed the power button. The screen remained black. He screamed "Why God, why!" and continued to push the button as if he was giving it CPR. "It's not your time! It's not your time!"

And then the faintest flicker. Was that the power or our imigaination? He pushed it again. This time it wasn't a flicker, but a striaght white line on one half of the screen. New life had been breathed back into the mighty HTC Touch Pro. A cheer went up but died quickly in our throats when we saw the rest of the screen.

Only one half of the screen was working. The other half remained in darkness and shall forever more remain in that same cold void of nothingness.

Yes, the phone came back but to what kind of life? What kind of quality usage can it expect with only one half of the screen working? But he can't let it go. Deaf, dumb and blind, the phone remains in his possession to this very day.

So you see, I may have never known this amount of loss. The kind of loss that stairs you straight in the face every time you try to check the weather on your cell phone and only get Monday and Tuesday when you need the 7 day extended forecast. The kind of loss where you get directions only to the halfway point or where your wife sends you a text message saying "I love............" Who does she love? Father Hitman may never know as he keeps vigil over his shattered cell phone. A phone more fit for a texting donkey than a SAHD who was just trying to get a great picture of Tryst Falls for his kids memories.

So gather around tonight my brothers, my fellow dads in the parenting jungle. Raise your glass to that brave cell phone that sacrificed itself so the thousand dollar camera could live. Sing it's praises and send it on it's way to that great big voicemail box in the sky. And remember what it was in the prime of it's life, when it gladly told you who was calling and gladly let you ignore it. Just hope that one day it's in a better place, surrounded by 72 virgins and 1000 night and weekend minutes.

Playgroup conversations

As a stay at home dad I often get asked, especially by wives, what the hell do you guys talk about. I get it all the time. My sister, my wife, just about every mother I know asks that question. It seems that many can't imagine what 15 guys talk about when we get together when we are surrounded by future presidents and award winning cancer curing scientists. Well, they aren't that yet but we all have high expectations. My kid in particular. I've her slotted for Ruler Over All. I am hoping that she will let me live in a sweet villa beside the ocean. And I get free steak. That would be awesome.

Do you guys talk about breast feeding? About potty training? About snot and poop? It's like they have a hard time imagining that a bunch of guys, as manly as we are, talk about these things. And I can't blame them. Their experience with men has routinly been guys trying to get into their pants. Including their experiences with us. Except we succeeded. Go us. And now we are stay at home dads with the children to prove our smoothness.


But c'mon, we aren't always ruled by whats south of the border. We have bigger interests than just that. I know a lot of our wives read this sight to see what's going on with thier kids and check up on their husbands. So let me put it all to rest, let's answer that question once and for all. What do we talk about at playgroup when it's just us and the kids? So here's what we talk about.

That chick at the grocery store.
That chick at the gas station.
That chick at the mailbox.
That chick that had to be at least 21.
That chick with that thing at that place.

Potty training.

That chick at Blockbuster getting that romantic comedy.
That chick that looked at me all sexy like when I pulled up to her at the stoplight.
That chick who I bet is wearing a thong.
That chick who found my kid lost at the grocery store.
That chick who was in the swing waiting for her boyfriend.

Finding the right preschool.

That chick at the gym.
That chick that looked like she went to the gym.
That chick in that commercial.
That chick on that TV show.
That chick who was in the commercial and the TV show.

Diaper rash.

That chick who was walking her dog as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was crossing the street as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing yard work as we came to playgroup.
That chick that was doing jumping jacks by her car as we came to playgroup.
That chick with the jogging stroller that we passed as we came to playgroup.

The difficulties of breast feeding.

That chick that was all greasy underneath the hood of her car in the short cutoffs.
Those chicks that were in a full out pillow fight at the slumber party.
That chick that was eating that Popsicle.
That chick in the nurses outfit.
The fact that none of those things were scene but it would have been cool if they were.

How to make a quilt for ever lasting memories.

Princes Leah.
Princes Leah and her hair buns.
Princes Leah and her gold bikini.
Princes Leah and her hair buns and her gold bikini and how she seems to like fat guys.
Princes Leah and fat guys and what might be her home phone number.

Recipes for losing weight or becoming an interstellar smuggler.

That chick who reads this blog.
That chick who will no longer talk to us.
That chick who thinks we are a bunch of disgusting jagoffs but yet bad boy sexy.
That chick who thinks that she can fix us.
That chick who wishes we drove a motorcycle with a carseat on the back because that would be cool.

Aprons.

That chick at the zoo.
That chick at Shatto Milk Company.
That chick at the civil war battlefield.
That chick at the Library.
That chick on the hiking trail.

The best way to put in a carseat.

There you go. That's just about all that we talk about. I hope that I have shown our wives that yes, we can be a little neanderthal at times, but underneath all of that is a caring husband who has a nurturing side. Someone that doesn't just think unpure thoughts all day like it is rumored that men do. Someone that can cook you a kick ass dinner and make sure that the kids aren't jumping off the roof.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go sleep on the couch for a couple of days until that chick at the flower shop hooks me up and gets me those roses.

Playgroup: July 15. From the Kids Perspective

Insanity. But always in a good way.

Kids running, running, gotta get there, gotta play hard, gotta play fast. Oh, look there is the trampoline, gotta jump, gotta jump high and gotta jump hard. Ouch, I busted my lip. I don't want to get down, you can't make me get down. Ok, I'll get down and you take me to my dad and I'll show him my bloody lip. Look dad, I have a bloody lip, I'm a real man now, gotta get back.

The swing set, that's cool, gotta sing on it, gotta swing high and hard. Let's climb to the top because that's really high. Now down the slide, WEEEEEEEE, that was cool, let's do that again. But I want to climb up the slide and I can't with my flip flops on. Here dad take these, they are a pain, stupid shoes, let me go shoeless like Tom Sawyer, he was cool, I'm cool, I want to go rafting. Where did my shoes go?

Oh, what's that over there? That's rabbits. Hey dad, hey dad, hey dad, hey dad. HEY DAD! LOOOK!!!! There are rabbits over here!!! Hey DAD! RABBITS! RIGHT HERE! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!

Gotta go potty, where is the potty, hey someone take me potty. I gotta go over here! You there, tall guy, you look like a dad, take me to the potty before I ruin this carpet. Ya know, I don't really care one way or another. But I gotta go, now are you going to take me?

Now I'm dancing, because dancing is cool. Look Dad, I'm doing the Charleston. See dad, see dad, see dad, PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I'm dancing. Hey, now everyone dance, see we're all dancing. And we're next to the kiddie pool. Can I get in? Please dad? Can I please get in? I'm going to get in. What you mean no! That's not right, I want to get in the pool, let me in the pool, I don't need my dress on, here, let me take it off. Let go of ME! NO! I WANT TO GO IN THE POOL! Put me down. I swear I'll kick you in the junk! Put me down! I don't want to get in the car, I don't want to go home.

I'm tired.

Daddy, have you seen where my underwear is?

How We Roll

Normal dads may take their kids to a nice Mcdonalds lunch. Let them play on the jungle gym a little, maybe make some eye contact with hot mom in the corner looking to trade up. They'll sit there in silence and eat some chicken nuggets, just a little ketchup please, and then perhaps an ice cream cone. Then they'll go home and drop the kid off and brag about how they took the kid all by themselves to lunch. And they'll get credit to.

But us. No, that's not how we roll. That's rookie dad stuff.

Instead we go to a downtown restaurant during the rush hour lunch. 4 dads and 6 kids, 3 of them are toddlers and 3 of them are still in diapers. This is dading at an advanced level.

We rolled into the restaurant, put our names down--yes you heard that right honey, we need three high chairs--and then continued to the bar. The 3 toddlers saddled up to the bar.

"Three shots of milk sweet cheeks, this one's on dad."

We finally get out table and left the bar remarkably intact, just a few thousand sets of silverware that our kids had slobbered on and thrown on the floor. A minor setback, it's true, but nothing that we couldn't handle. This isn't a challenge, this is a walk in the park.

We strolled through the business people talking about business things. Take over a corporation here, bankrupt a rival there--all trivial when compared to taking 6 kids, 3 strollers and enough diaper bags to change every baby in America, to a busy downtown restaurant at noon.

The place got quiet as they stopped their discussions of corporate evil and glanced our way. Oh, I know what they were thinking. They were thinking "What the fuck is this."

This is awesomeness personified, observe and bask in our glory.

We got to our table. We had chosen to implement a 3/2 zone defense, yes even our sports knowledge exceeds yours because what else do we have to do all day other than to analyze sports?

Within seconds the table was set and the kids were placed. No one was out of arms reach. The kids in the highchairs were already seated and munching on chips. Smooth. If you blinked you probably missed how we set this up. It's ok, we hold workshops.

And then we ordered. Just like that. No arguments, no questions, no surprises. My own kid threw a challenge to everyone else in the restaurant. He started downing handfuls of salsa. Carnage everywhere, salsa dripping from his chin and mixing with the tears from his eyes. But he was not crying, they were tears of victory. The gauntlet had been thrown, could the corporate pukes keep up?

They could not.

We were a sight to see, something that perhaps is not normal. A group of dads who are actually good at taking their kids out. A group of dads who aren't hurrying to get home, a group of dads and are ready to show you how it's done.

And then it happened. A lady came up to our table with her camera.

"Oh, I've got to get a picture of this." she said.

Yes baby, get a picture of the gun show passing around a package of wet wipes.

This, my friends, is how stay at home dads roll. Try and keep up.

Are You Prepared

I ask you, fellow fathers, are you properly preparing your children for the future. Sure, we have all given up valued careers, late night dinners with clients (where someone else cooks the damn steak!), possible liaisons from the office ho-bag. Yes, we have made our sacrifices for the good of our children.

But have we done enough, have we actually prepared our children from the single most terrifying threat that is coming? Oh yes, it's coming. It may be 20 years from now, but it is coming.

I am of course referring to zombie attacks.

Have you thought about what tactics you are going to teach your kids for that faithful time, when the zombie hoard comes to destroy us all?

Let me guess--you are perhaps teaching your kids how to use some guns. Hopefully a wide range of assault rifles, hand guns, perhaps even a harpoon because the horde will follow you into the ocean as well. We all know this.

And then maybe you are teaching them some survival techniques. Like what plants you can eat, how to set bear traps and the value of a meal cooked of dog. Not bad.

And finally, I would bet you are teaching them proper barricading techniques. Things such as how to board up windows, proper placement of punji sticks, which buildings make the best last minute forts. Hospitals are good. Gas stations perhaps, but only if they have an assortment of Slim Jims. But never a rest stop, the facilities are never clean enough.

But my friends, my dear ignorant friends, I declare you wrong. Yes, wrong as the day is long.

You are wrong because none of these things will ever work. We all know it. We've all seen it. I've seen just about every zombie movie out there. I have played just about every zombie game. And I've even read a ton of zombie books. And what have they all taught us?

There is no safe haven. There will be no great place in the country of western Kansas that will be free from the horde. There will be no government compound. Because all the movies and games tell us the same thing: it will all be over run. You can't keep the zombies out. They are relentless.

I have taken a different approach with my children. It's more passive, but I do believe it's ingenious. The only way to beat the zombies is to live with them. The only way to live with them is to convince them that you are ONE of them. Yes, you read that right, ONE of the undead. Without being undead of course, only acting like the undead so that they are not attacked by the zombie horde.

I have spent the last two days teaching both of my minions how to act like zombies. Sure, they are young ( a one year old and a 3 year old) but the lessons that they learn today will be the survival skills of tomorrow.

All I have to say is "How does a zombie go?" and immediately both of my kids spring into action. They snarl and they claw at the air, much like an inferi does. It sounds really good and I'm a quite proud father knowing that this is just the beginning. My son looks very good doing the zombie, he even slobbers a little. He may be teething but I take it to mean he actually understands the importance of what I'm teaching.

We are working on the zombie shuffle but that's not going so well at the moment. It's more stomping on the dog than shuffling for brains kind of thing. But we'll get there. I think we are making good progress. I made them do it for everyone at the gym today and I actually heard some screams in the background. Of course those screams could have been for me because I was all glistening in sweat and hotness, but I think it was for more the accurate portrayal of my zombie minions.

I realize that we have a lot of work to do, but we'll get there. And when the zombie horde comes, my kids will slip seamlessly into their ranks to gradually wait them out. Natural disasters should wipe a good number of zombies out. And I'm assuming that some will walk off cliffs and things because let's face it, zombies aren't that smart. And I'm sure some of your kiddos will take a few down before being over run. My kids will just sit back and wait, acting like zombies when necessary, scavaging for food when possible, and always praising the name of their father.

And in case you're wondering: I also taught my kids how to take a fake punch and then fall, how to do a three point stance, and how to say "Gigidy" like Quagmire from Family Guy. My wife is a very lucky woman.

It's Broken

As most of you may know, my 3 year old daughter likes to break things. Just about whatever she can get her little monkey hands on, eventually she will snap in half like a vanquished foe. Then she throws it down and spits on it declaring her awesomeness to anyone who dares to challenge her.

So it was no big surprise that my little Mongo came running up to me today screaming "Daddy! Daddy!" In her little hand she held a wheel. It's a green wheel, plastic of course because toy manufacturers love to drive all dad's apeshit by making all their toys out of plastic. They obviously have never let a 3 year old destructor road test any of their toys.

Screw plastic, we require cobalt steel. It should be able to withstand a mac truck running over it, turning around, running over it again and then the driver getting out of the truck to hit it with a hammer. I would so buy that toy. I don't even care what kind of toy it would be, but I would buy it.

So little Mongo hands me the wheel and says "Daddy fix it." As soon as I see it, I know that I can't. The wheel belongs to her little shopping cart that she has had for the last 2 years. Now I must say, I am quite impressed that this thing has lasted this long. But it's one of her favorites and now it has snapped. My guess is that she was trying to see if she could punch holes in the wall with it.

I'll also admit that I hate to break my daughter's heart. All the tough talk that I might do, she plays me like a violin and I hate to disappoint her.

"I can't honey. It's broken for good." I say as I examine where it snapped off. It's a clean break, but it's an actual break. No glue could hold this, no screw would make it through the plastic without ripping it apart. It's officially broke.

"No Daddy, you fix it." she sounds so confident.

"I can't honey, it's broken."

"No Daddy, I help." she says and then disappears. I have no idea what is coming next as I hear her in the kitchen going through one of the drawers. My first thought is that she is going to get a knife and hold it to my throat until I fix this thing. I'm already making plans for my escape.

I know that I will break down and go by her a new one. I'm weak, I'll admit it. She'll learn her lesson of not to play to rough with her toys and then daddy will go buy her a new one. Because I'm a sap.

She comes back in with something in her hands.

"Here you go Daddy. I help!" she says, she is so proud of herself.

She hands me a roll of duct tape.

I swear to all that is holy I have never been so proud of my daughter as I was at that moment.

The wheel now works fine.