Our Kids Get Away With Shit

The other night we went out for a little family dinner.  Nothing too fancy, mind you, or nothing very chic either.  We had burgers at Kelsey's.  The point, though, is that we weren't at home.  We were out in public.  Among other people.

And Grayson took a big shit at the dinner table.

And then a part of me actually thought to myself, Must be nice.  Why can't I just take a big ol' shit at the dinner table and get away with it?

I mean, he did it right at the table!  Grunted, pushed, and turned his face red as he squeezed out a monster turd.  And we actually encouraged it like it was cute.  "Uh-oh, someone's having a big poopie," we said.  Other people in the restaurant looked over and made cute faces at him when they should've been disgusted by what he was doing.  If I just up and shit myself at the table those old people would have had me arrested.

So I got to thinking about all the crazy shit kids can get away with that us grown-ups can't.

Like, the shitting in public is a pretty obvious one, but what about talking back to people of authority?  Back in the day you wouldn't think twice about smacking a kid for being out of line.  These days, you can't do that though.  Kids today actually have rights, and they don't even pay taxes yet.  They can talk back to their parents or other authority figures and what do they get?  A talking to, a timeout, or maybe their toys are taken away for an hour or so.

If we talked back to our bosses with attitude, or gave police officers a hard time, we'd be fired.  Or shots would be fired. Either way, the outcome wouldn't be so good.

I've seen kids fucking pick their nose and eat it.  EAT IT! They eat it like it was second nature.  Like they were marooned on an island and it was the only thing possibly available to eat.  The wild animals were already hunted, the trees were no longer producing coconuts, so might as well eat some boogers.  Now, let's not kid ourselves here - everyone picks their nose, even adults - but if you even try to put one of those snot balls in your mouth and someone saw you there would only be one possible solution.  Nobody would ever kiss you again.  And yet, we still kiss our children goodnight, even though we've all seen proof that they have, at one time or another, had boogers in their mouths.

And what about those naps?  When I'm tired I can't throw a shit fit full of tears and screaming.  Nope.  Not allowed.  Do I get to have a nap?  No, I get to have a coffee.  Maybe we should start giving kids coffee.

At Ryleigh's bus stop the other day, this kid tripped as he was getting on the bus.  Sure, it hurts a little.  Maybe he scraped his knee, I don't know.  But you'd think that by the way he was crying and screaming and carrying on that his feet had suddenly fallen off or something.   Now that would hurt.  He didn't suck it up like a champ and take his seat on the school bus either.  He cried in the doorway of the bus while his mom coddled him and babied him.  You can imagine what that did to the line up of cars behind the school bus.  You're right - that line of cars didn't get any smaller.  Or more patient.  If that were an adult... if that were me... causing everyone to be late for work or appointments or affairs, someone would have gotten out of their car and punched me in the fucking face.  Then they would have told me to suck it up and take a seat on the goddam bus.

Amid all this rambling I'm still full aware that it's okay to have dessert even if you don't finish your dinner.  That's still okay.  That'll probably never change, no matter the generation, which political party is in power, or which different group of people are being unfairly singled out as terrorists because their clothes are different.

But something really needs to be done about all these kids taking shits at the table.  If they keep that up, how will they ever learn which fork is for the salad and which is for the entree?

- ryan

Being a Parent Really Does Change You

They told you it would happen.  They told me too.

Being a parent will change the way you look at everything.

And sure, there's the way you look at the economy, and the neighborhood you live in, and don't get me started on worrying about public schools or the other idiot kids your child wants to be friends with.

The Lovely Wife and Grayson

Let's start with the basics.

Poop.

It wasn't that long ago that having a conversation about poop was frowned upon in my relationship.  If I ran out from the washroom to let the lovely wife know about the half-footer I unloaded in the toilet, she'd just stare at me as if to say, "Really, and somehow you think you're going to get laid tonight after telling me that?"

I can remember this one time I got in shit from her (pun not intended) because we were at her parent's place for Thanksgiving dinner and I left to go drop a deuce.  I was in the bathroom for, like, fifteen minutes, and apparently it wasn't appropriate for me to do the most basic of bodily functions while all of her aunts, uncles, and cousins were visiting.  Oops.

But here we are, happily married, with two wonderful children - and we often talk about poop.  We keep it a regular conversation.

"Did Ryleigh poop today?"
"Has Grayson pooped yet today?"
"Ooooh, the baby made a smelly poop.  He must be YOUR son."

Heaven forbid I manage to go a few days without changing a dirty diaper.  That's when I'm reminded, by the lovely wife, just how much my six-month old son really loves me, and how he's missed me while I was at work, and how he'd like nothing more than for me to wipe up the smelly poop that has somehow journeyed up to the middle of his back like settlers looking for spices in India.

Ryleigh and me.

We can be at the mall, and Ryleigh - who keep in mind is only four years old - will start a conversation by letting me know about the poop she had the day before.  And sometimes there's no more to the story.  It wasn't an adventure to get the poop out.  Nor was it a freeing experience that inspired a haiku.  Nope.  Simply, "Daddy.. and yesterday I just went poop."  Whoa, surprise ending.

And nowhere is sacred anymore.  If I let a little fart out at the dinner table by accident, I'm condemned to the likes of Hitler, Stalin, and Palpatine.  But just three feet away from me, Grayson grunts and turns his face redder than the devil himself as he fills his diaper with our new dinnertime conversation.  "Oh, somebody's having a big, stinky poop," the lovely wife will say as I shovel another round of mashed potatoes and gravy into my food-hole.  I can't say I blame the boy though, if I were allowed to shit at the dinner table I probably would too - if anything just to see what would happen.

So there you have it.  Poop.  It's what's for dinner.

- ryan

I Was A Fat Kid

I was a fat kid.

It's not something I talk about overly much, but I was a fucking fat kid.  And I was picked on a lot too.  No biggie, right?  Happens to a lot of us growing up.  Some might even say they are who they are today because of the way they were treated by their schoolyard chums.  Like the caterpillar to the butterfly.  I'm sorry, I can't help but laugh at myself as I type that last sentence.

I was a fat kid with a really short brush cut.  The other kids called me Pugsley, like the fucking fat kid from the Addams Family movie.  I distinctly remember this one time in Grade 7 that one of my friends pointed out how I actually had bigger titties than most of the girls in class.  Granted, theirs hadn't quite come in yet.  So I guess I kinda looked like your stereotypical dyke with an affinity for eating chips and drinking Pepsi.

Grade 8 Graduation.

I'm not telling this story today to garner any sympathy, or help anyone else out.  I can guarantee you that somewhere else is a boy or girl getting picked on for being fat.  And maybe it's their fault or maybe it's not.  That's not my place to say.  I'm not in charge of the world.

I have two children of my own now - two beautiful children who I encourage to be whatever they want to be.  My son Grayson, at four months old, already eats like a champ and is going to be a thick boy.  I predict a future WWF Champion in my family.  My daughter Ryleigh, only four years old recently had her first experience of not feeling like she was beautiful enough at someone else's hands.  Just hearing about it tore me apart.

I was a fat kid.  And I was also a lazy kid.  I liked reading books, drawing Superman comics, watching Star Wars, playing Super Mario Bros. 3, and trading O-Pee-Chee hockey cards.  When I did get my exercise, which was road hockey, I usually played goalie because I didn't want to run.  I was a fat, lazy, pimply kid who could down an entire 2L bottle of Pepsi while watching TGIF.  At the age of twelve I could easily knock off an entire Godfatha pizza while watching the Coca Cola Countdown on Much Music. 

That's when I decided I wanted to grow my hair long, from my early interests in rock music, but I knew I'd probably look like the singer Meat Loaf.  It was bad enough that everyone already called me Pugsley.  I had a hard enough time getting girls to like me without the other boys telling me that I'd likely do anything for love. 

Grade 9 photo

How was gym class, you ask?  Not bad.  You learn how much time you have to let your mind wander when you're always picked last.  I did some of my best daydreaming during gym class.  I even created a few super-heroes while there. 

I was fifteen when I decided enough was enough.  I was sick of people thinking my name was actually Pugsley because they didn't even know me.  I was a fat kid, and a lazy kid, and a shy kid because I didn't want to be seen by anyone.  For all anyone knew, my name really was Pugsley.  They'd hum that theme song, and ironically, I couldn't even snap my fingers to try and lighten up the mood.  So I created a very green diet.

This diet was so green that all it consisted of was Iceberg Lettuce and Lime Kool-Aid.  And that's pretty much all I ate for a few months.  I'm not proud of it, but I did lose a lot of weight in a short time.  People have large worded terms and conditions and disorders for these types of things nowadays.  I never made myself throw up; I hate vomiting more than just about anything.

Now I'm not trying to tell anyone a quick way to lose weight here, because listen to me, doing something like eating only lettuce and drinking Kool-Aid will fuck you up really good.  But you know what?  We live in a really fucked up world.  Nobody ever thinks they're good enough, no matter how truly great they are.  Fucked.  Up.

I had become friends in high school with a girl, Angie, who told me. "Ryan, nobody else can love you until you learn to love yourself."  Not sure if she got that from a Jewel song, but it's something that's always stuck with me. 

All kidding aside, this shirt was fucking awesome.

What really sucks is now, as an adult with kids of my own, I see all these stories about bullying and obesity and it's clear that the real problem is and has always been that nobody teaches their kids to fucking stand up for themselves anymore.  Yeah, I was a fat, lazy kid who got picked on a lot - but I also didn't stand up for myself when I should have.  I didn't know how.  It's one thing to be a pansy-ass and go cry in the corner until you starve yourself and then it's another to do something about it. 

Parents, please, you can teach your kids all you want about anti-bullying but you're really better off teaching your child how to stand up to those bullies and make them go away.  Sure, they'll probably get hurt a few times in the process, but it might just be worth it.  And I'm not talking about them telling a teacher, or writing a poem about their feelings - teach your kids to punch someone right between the eyes.  Hard.  Seriously.

As for me, I'm not a kid anymore.  I'm a little round in the belly, and yet I get more exercise these days than ever.  I've replaced the 2L Pepsi bottles with a few pints of Banana Bread Beer.  I can eat a whole Tata's pizza if I want to, but I like to save some for lunch the next day.  I'll change the TV channel if the Addams Family is on because it makes me emotional.  I still enjoy salad, but ninety-nine percent of the time I put something on it so it's not just lettuce.  I can't remember the last time I had green Kool-Aid, and that's fine.  I've learned to love so much about myself (hence why I have my own fan club), but there's parts of me that I don't truly believe I can ever come to terms with.

I guess some part of me will always be that fat kid.  And I bet you're the same, in your own way.
Fucked up, eh?

- ryan

Ryleigh and Grayson; my two exceptionally awesome kids.

My Son Seems to Love Alice Cooper

A couple weeks ago, my son Grayson was throwing a bit of a temper tantrum.

Nothing really new for a two-month old child.  Sometimes when Grayson is crying I try to settle him down by singing or humming to him.  That's also nothing new; parents have been trying that old trick for centuries.

She asked me why the singer's name was Alice

Often times, I'll hum some classic movie themes - something from Star Wars or Superman.  Usually, if I hum the Princess Leia theme he chills right out and goes to sleep.  It's pretty soothing, I guess.  But this time, no such luck.  The power of the Force wasn't about to save me from the oncoming headache.

So I started singing, "Only Women Bleed" by Alice Cooper.  Granted, at the time I had been reading Alice's autobiography, "Golf Monster", and the song was fresh in my mind.  I've always been a big Alice Cooper fan, so I had no problem remembering the lyrics.  And let's face it - "Only Women Bleed" is a fucking killer song.  Give it a listen.  I can wait the five minutes or so.

"Only Women Bleed" didn't just calm Grayson down though... he started smiling.  Does my two-month old son like Alice Cooper?

So I tried something else... "No More Mr. Nice Guy"... big smiles!
"Under My Wheels"... smiling and laughing!
"I'm Eighteen"... smiling, laughter, and kinda sorta singing along.
"Poison"... all of the above.

Okay, by singing along, I mean he made lots of noise during the song. But, he wasn't crying!  So I like to thing he was singing along.

A few days later, instead of breaking out the Princess Leia theme, I went right into "School's Out", and the smiles, laughter, and noises came right back... but this time they were joined by Grayson's hands in the air, kind of not unlike a fist pump.

I'm so glad that both of my kids are developing a good taste in music at such a young age.
(Ryleigh also has a strict Aerosmith lullaby routine at bedtime and was quite upset when she thought her "Dream On" CD was broken...)

I guess he's just my billion dollar baby.

- ryan of the ryan fan club 

Cute or creepy?  My Lovely Wife nixed the 1st picture of Grayson in Alice paint I tried using, so we've got this one.

Time For A Bum Change

....something smells funny

"He needs his bum changed."

What the fuck does that even mean?  I know, obviously, my lovely wife is referring to how my child has soiled his diaper with a big, stinky, yellow-ish kinda poo and it's my turn to put a new clean diaper on him.  On average, I get every ninth or tenth poo-diaper.  The odds are usually in my favor.

Not bad.

Not something I'd take to Vegas though either.

We're not the only parents who refer to this as, "Changing their bum."  Somewhere along the way we've all stopped referring to diapers as diapers.  Well, except for when we're shelling out too much money for some combination of paper and cotton that will inevitably be shit in and tossed away.

Diapers and toilet paper.  It's amazing how much money we spend on those things considering what we do with them.  We're quite the culture.  We take very special care of our bum holes.

So... what if we could actually change a baby's bum?

Instead of putting on a new Pampers diaper - and let's not kid ourselves here, I'm a Pampers dad.  It's the only brand of diapers I buy.  Fuck Huggies.  They fucking leak everywhere.  So instead of putting on a new Pampers diaper, imagine you could just remove the child's rear end and put a new one on it in it's place.  We can't be that far away from that reality.  I have to believe in my heart that the Diaper Genie company is working on a Baby Bum Attachment.  Kind of like a poo catcher.  And at the end of the day you'd just take it off and replace it with a new one at bedtime.

Let's be realistic here.  That thing doesn't exist yet.  But let's be more realistic.  When it does exist it'll come with a spot to insert a Glade scented plug-in and a dock to charge your cellphone too.  Then you can listen to your favorite music coming out of your baby's bum like speakers.  And who knows, the little pride n' joy might just shake his booty to the beat.

"Looks like I'm getting a text from my little boy.  Nope.  He just shit himself again."

Stop laughing.  That's terrible. 

A sophisticated little man is allowed to make doo-doo in his pants so long as he's cute about it.

"He needs his bum changed."  Why?  What's wrong with it?  Is it not doing what it's supposed to?  Well, I suppose sometimes it's not.  Have you ever said, "this baby needs a bum change", and then the kid only peed in the diaper?  Well, why would that baby need it's bum changed?  Kids don't pee out of their bums.

"He needs his wiener changed."

Nobody is about to start saying that.  And if you're the one who does start that trend then you should go and get it put on a t-shirt.  The saying.  Not the actual wiener change.  Or both.  Whatever. That's gross.  You're gross.  Stop being so gross, grossy-pants.

If you could actually change your baby's bum, what would you change it to?

"Ayyy, don't call me no bum!"

Would you get the Wal-Mart variety of bums that are cheap or would you feel the need to get an expensive bum endorsed by a celebrity?  "Hi, I'm Angelina Jolie and when I have to change my babies' bums the brand I rely on is Ford.  They make baby bums that are built to last." 

Or instead of celebrities endorsing new baby bums, maybe there would be celebrity molded bums. 

"Are you in the market for a baby bum change?  Are you looking for something a bit more stylish for your baby than the bum they were born with?  Let everyone in town know your baby is the fanciest with the new Jennifer Lopez Baby Bum!  That's right, now your baby can have the same mold of bum that J-Lo had when she was a baby!  Impress your friends!  Raise your child to be neurotic!"

What the fuck.

Oh, I know!  Maybe my lovely wife has been referring to a "Bum Change" as getting a homeless man to change our kid's diaper.  Gosh, that could sure save a lot of time in a day.  And think of the different immunities the kid would develop in the process.

Also, have you heard of these things called "Pee-pee Tee-Pee"?  Apparently, you put it over a baby boy's wiener so you don't get peed on while changing their diaper.  I'm not really buying into it though.  My reflexes are alright. 

Besides, I peed on my dad when I was a baby and we all turned out just fine.  But he rarely ever had to change my diaper.  And as far as I now I still have my original bum.  For now.

- ryan of the ryan fan club

The New Kid On The Block

Grayson Ryan Ewing

No, no, no, I'm not talking about Donnie or Joey.  There's a new addition to the Fan Club family. And he's got the right stuff, baby.

On December 17, 2014, Grayson Ryan Ewing was born.  He weighed nearly ten pounds, and gave new meaning to the old expression, "gonna tear you a new asshole."  I'm sure my lovely wife is just elated that I wrote that part, but I'm about eighty-five percent certain she doesn't read my blog anyway.  I suppose I could just use the backspace key and erase it but I'm afraid I've already lost track of where the off comment is. 

So anyway, he brought new meaning to the old expression, "gonna tear you a new asshole."

Ladies, I know you're all cringing from the idea of pushing a ten-pounder out of you so I'll save you the explicit details.

Who am I kidding, if you don't hear all about the blood, guts, random colored liquids, and lack of oxygen then it'll never make sense how I nearly passed out in the delivery room.

That's right, I darn near dropped to the floor like a ten pound bag of potatoes.  I'm using the potato analogy because I'm Irish.  If I were, say, Russian then I would've dropped like a ten liter bottle of vodka.  The same amount of vodka that is equally divided amongst all new fathers in Russia whom are about to spontaneously drop at the sight of their newborn son.

And that's what happened. I turned light-headed and dizzy, and they made me lay down before I fell down and hurt myself.  Pansy ass pansy. 

The big sister and the little brother.

I guess I was feeling this incredible amount of over-joy at the sight of my little boy.  The doc said it was because I wasn't getting enough oxygen after helping my lovely wife with all that pushing.  But what does he know?  He's only a doctor.  Come to think of it, I'm not too sure about his credentials.  Sure, he delivered our new baby boy just fine, but he didn't even have a Flux Capacitor with him.  How good of a doctor could he really be without one?

So anyway, there I am laying on the floor while the nurses got on the intercom and immediately began calling, "We need some juice in here for the dad.  Stat!"

That's when I looked up at my lovely wife and she was looking back at me with a face that could only read, "Seriously?"  It seems as though my little near-accident had taken away all the attention and thunder from the woman who had just given birth.

Guys, there's some advice for you - in the delivery room, it's all about your wife.  Even if you think marriage is a 50/50 deal. 

But back to the nurses for a sec... since my lovely wife had to have her water broken manually, and the entire baby delivery took about three hours from the time of inducement, and the nurses each needed a break during that time, we had four or five different nurses come in and out.

I'd like to point out that during those three hours I was witness to four or five different nurses inserting their fingers right up into my wife to check up on her.  That's as close to the fantasy as I think I'll ever get.  I think I may have enjoyed it more than my lovely wife did, but I haven't asked her to be sure.  Sometimes I'm just happy to know that I'm happy.

Aren't nurses great?  I mean, even though they don't dress in those skimpy white costumes you see in porno movies, they're just all around great.  I'd like to think that any time I've been to a hospital over the last few years the nurses have been more involved than the doctors.  And ninety percent of the time they're much easier on the eyes.

And then there's the whole part of them going knuckles deep on my wife.  I'm glad in Canada we have free health care, otherwise I'd be blowing my whole paycheck on nurses.

they lost to the Leafs when this was taken.

But back to what you came here for - the new baby boy!  When Grayson was taken to his first family doctor's appointment (and I'm not about to rant about how attractive our family doctor is for being a woman in her 50s) we found out he's in the 95 percentile.  When he first came out at almost ten pounds we thought he was a big one, but we didn't realize just how big he was.  Being in the 95 percentile means that only 5% of babies are bigger than him at his age.

JESUS CHRIST!

I am happy to say that little Grayson is doing just fine too.  He eats.  He poops.  He's already trying to sit up on his own at two weeks old.  And probably most importantly he throws his fist in the air with pride when we chant, "LET'S GO BRUINS!"

When our daughter, Ryleigh, was born in 2011 the Bruins went on to win the Cup that year.  Here's hoping Grayson can have the same affect on the team this year 'cause they kinda suck balls right now.  But that's a blog for a whole other day.

Grayson is set to take over for me and become Grayson Ryan Fan Club when he's old enough and the idea of me trying to get young girls to join my Fan Club is just too creepy for everyone involved.  I guess this is what it means when Brando says, "The son becomes the father and the father, the son," in Superman: The Movie.

- ryan of the ryan fan club

That's My Boy!

Breaking news - My pregnant wife is expecting a boy.

...and he looks just like me already!

That's right.  A male child.

I'm 99% sure it's mine too.  I mean, and married men with kids will agree with me here, I don't actually remember making the love to my wife and thus conceiving this child.  She told me it happened, and narrowed it down to a specific day and time so I'm just going to assume I was watching a Bruins game while all the hoopla happened.

Regardless, I'm going to be a dad again - and this time to a little boy.

You might remember a little while back I did the Top 11 Rejected Baby Names, so basically I can now cut that list of names in half.  And no matter how hard I try, she won't let me name this boy Bret The Hitman Ewing.

Believe me, I've tried.

In all seriousness we've settled on the name, Grayson, for this child.

And also in all seriousness, yes - this name is traced back to Batman comics.  When our son is old enough to learn the secret origin of his name, he's gonna be super happy by that news.  Unless he's a Marvel fan, then he'll be no son of mine.

Many of you know that I'm an Irish Prince.  If you don't then that's definitely a story for another day, but in the meantime just accept it for the sake of this blog.  I am, until this son is born, the last of my family's bloodline.  My father had two male siblings, who each spawned one son. Neither of those cousins of mine reproduced boys.  They only had girls.  They're also a good fifteen years or so older than me, so since getting married and having sex with a purposeful outcome (or a goal - that kinda takes away the excitement and allure of bumping uglies with your mate) it's been up to me to produce a son.  If only so that the family name can continue.

...how we announced to the world.  Well, facebook.

Initially I was convinced we had to give this child an Irish name.  After all, our daughter's name is Ryleigh, so I put a lot of effort into finding a great Irish name for my boy.

I then decided that this child should have the most Irish-sounding name out there... Patrick.

Yep, I was all set to name my child Patrick Ewing.

It only took about four seconds to realize a thousand reasons why that wouldn't work.

And then I remembered how much I liked the name Grayson, and how if Ryleigh had been a boy she might have been named that.

I don't expect this new child of mine to join the circus, or fight crime, or live in a castle in Ireland.  But as I sat there in the hospital room watching the ultrasound (and how looking at the face straight on kind of looked like Skeletor) (and the weird-o 3D ultrasound that looks like the baby is on fire) and learning the good news of the gender, one thing became abundantly clear: I have never been so excited to see a penis in my life.

- Ryan