Daddy’s bout to lose his shit: Daddy Rage, pt. II

Late night last night, because apparently everyone but me wanted to stay up all night. Long day at work today, because I’m between projects until next Monday, so it’s been a little slow as of late. Forty minute drive home, (on a 90 degree day), which was pretty good considering the traffic. I’m even more tired than usual by the time I get home, and all I want to do is veg the fuck out.

Then I walk through the door and the madness ensues…

No I don’t want to hold you right now, Thing 2. Nor do I want you sitting in my lap right this moment, I’m still cooling off from being outside. That also means I don’t want you sitting beside me and laying &/or hanging on me, raising my body temperature.

No Momma Bear, I don’t really wanna talk about X, Y, and Z right now. And Thing 1, I don’t need to see whatever computer or tablet game it is you’re playing, because you’ve already shown me a hundred times. But don’t interrupt your mom, she’s telling me important shit I don’t care about right this second.

“I want my daddy!” Thing 2 whines to her mother, who’s been hearing it all day, every day for the last week or so. I’m right fucking here, you’re looking dead at me, I want to say, but she’s 2, and apparently that kinda thing is frowned upon. I reach out to her, and she runs to me. I hold her for a minute or two, and then she spots the piece of pizza on her plate, and decides she’s done with me.

No, I don’t think you need more “sprinkle cheese”, i.e. Parmesan, on your pizza. And no I don’t want to get up for the third time to refill the cup of water you keep chugging like a frat boy playing beer pong.

Immediately after dinner, it starts back up.

No I don’t really want to color with you Thing 1, or get Thing 2 a blanket because she’s “cold”. Put on some pants, and ya might not be so cold. But I do, because I don’t have any real valid reason as to why I can’t. I wrap Thing 2 with a small, red blanket, while Thing 1 breaks out an old ‘Pirates’ coloring book that’s almost finished. And by finished, I mean some of the pages have been colored completely, and some have only a line or two scribbled on ’em. But God help me if I try to finish any of those pages. So I find an unfinished page midway through the book, and fight every urge I have to color him like Hulk Hogan. Seriously… a horseshoe mustache, and what I can only imagine is a glorious mullet underneath that classy bandanna. But I do my best, and even managed to get a “Good job, daddy!” Oh yeah, you’re right it fuckin’ is.

Woot! It’s almost bedtime… Thing 1 is reading, and Thing 2 is playing on her tablet (not that she actually owns one, we’re not that fancy. We check them out from the library!). Momma’s doing her thing, whatever the hell that is, on her computer. Daddy gets to play video games for a few minutes. Five minutes into Wii and Chill, and one kid is sitting “beside” me, while the other’s trying to climb up into my lap. Y’all don’t get it, do ya?! 

Finally, it’s 8 o’clock! Ugh, no I don’t want to make your bed, Thing 1. You’re almost 7, surely you can pull the sheet and blankets back up yourself. And when you’re done with that, go brush your teeth like I told you to do 10 minutes ago.


This was the wifey’s response to my reaction. Told her I was using it, and she sarcastically reminded me to cite my sources. So here ya go, honey.

All is quiet for a moment, as they disappear into the bathroom, and at last, after nearly three hours of the non-stop nonsense, I have a moment of peace and quiet.

It’s not that they’re bad, or that I don’t want to spend any time, or do anything with them. I do, and I love them to pieces. I’m pretty sure I’m not nearly as bad of a dad as I come across here (at least the wifey hasn’t told me otherwise yet…). But dammit. Sometimes I just need you, and you, and you to disappear. You have your own rooms! Hell, you even have one that’s just for your toys. And that one used to be my “man-cave”, so you better fucking appreciate it!


Now I understand why Momma takes 2-hour long baths sometimes.

From time to time, Daddy needs some me-time… by myself. And not even to do anything important. Or anything, at all. Maybe I just wanna stare at the paint on the wall, or count whatever the hell you call those things in a popcorn ceiling. But I’d like to do it in tranquility. Like this:

I love that shit…

Momma Bear, seeing my frustration, takes me lovingly in her arms, and I quickly find my happy place. And then Thing #1 pops her head around the corner from the hallway with another of her never-ending, infernal questions.



Links: Daddy Rage, pt. I


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