Here I sit in an Amazonian wonderland of pink and princesses, a world awash in hair ties, clips, scrunchies, headbands, bows and other hair related accessories I should not know nor care the names of. I constantly trip over piles of Polly Pockets, princess dresses and baby dolls, all of which are ‘my favorite and I can’t sleep without.’ I sadly understand the complex world of fairies, can recite entire stretches of Tangled dialogue, and can have serious and deep discussions about the metaphysical underpinnings of Strawberry Shortcake. And don’t get me started on Frozen.
Yes, I’m a husband and the father of two little girls. I eke out an existence amongst them, subsisting on the unwanted raisins from their trail mix and the remnants of juice boxes they aren’t quite smart enough to figure out how to drain completely. And I live for those fleeting minutes at the fringe of day, when the kids finally pass out in their beds, books in hand, and the wife crashes on the couch mid-way through ‘Teen Mom.’ It is in this magic hour I gingerly pluck the Xbox controller from under a mountain of teacups and plastic scones, and reclaim my sanity by bi-secting Nazis with increasingly unrealistic weaponry.
I know what you’re thinking – having a wife and two girls is not unusual nor even excessive. This is seemingly true – my neighbor has three daughters, and probably has more on the way. And those poor scientists at Jurassic Park – hundreds of cranky female dinosaurs taking out millenia of repressed rage over pre-historic glass ceilings!
But I don’t think you understand the gravity of my situation. It’s not just the wife, or the little girls. No – I’m surrounded by females in this menagerie we call a house. Did I mention the two female dogs? What about the female cat? The female rabbit? And once I figure out how to check, I’m pretty sure our 3 hermit crabs are female as well. Hell, even our outlets are female.
No, I (and the plugs) stand alone in our house as the last bastion of maleness, trying to maintain the balance that nature demands through a standard regimen of burps, farts, and beer drinking. Stereotypical to be sure – but it makes me feel better and serves the practical purpose of clearing out the living room so I can watch The Walking Dead.
My aim here is to once again chronicle the absurdities of life, marriage and parenthood so that one day, ONE DAY, my kids will know what they put me through and why I’m sitting in that chair, staring blankly into space, arguing to no one in particular that Curious George was a just a delusion of the Man in the Yellow Hat – his Tyler Durden (ala Fight Club). But with less fighting and more ‘world-discovering.’
And just so that there’s no confusion – I love my family – my girls are adorable, and my wife is amazing. And the dogs – well the dogs currently think the cat poop is an ‘irresistible temptation.’ Gross.
Must be a girl thing.