My six-year-old got hold of my phone My apologies, Reverend. My six-year-old got hold of my phone and sent you 142 poop emojis. Please know that this in no way reflects my opinion of you or the Church. (Although it does make me wonder if there is a god.) To my father-in-law, Lou. No grandparent should ever receive a GIF of Fabio not wearing pants dancing suggestively with the words Let's get it on! I was sure I had deleted that. To my boss, Gary. Did you happen to receive a photo of a baboon's ass with a note reading Found this picture of you? I sent that one. If there were a job interview to have children The interviewer might say I see here that you want children. And you might say, Yes! I'm ready. Great. Are you happy in your marriage? Very. My wife is amazing. Good for you. Just a couple of questions. When's the last time you went to hear live music? Two weeks ago. Last-minute thing. Saw a jazz band. Last time on a plane? Paris, I think. Yes. We went to Paris for four days. Did you sleep on the plane? Yes. It was an overnight flight. Did anyone throw up on you at any time? No. Of course not. Why? Did anyone on the plane wake you suddenly by screaming in your face? What? No. May I ask about the frequency of your sex life? Average, I guess. Five or six times a week. How wonderful. I'd like you to take this paper from me. Do you feel anything? What the hell . . . what is this? It's sticky and it smells. Do you like that feeling? No! Don't be alarmed but I am now going to pour this large glass of orange juice on your pant leg. Jesus Christ! I can't believe you just did that. I'm going to make a very loud, annoying noise in your ear. Tell me if you enjoy it. Ahhhhhhh!!!! What the hell is wrong with you, man?!! Mister Simpson, I have some bad news for you. Who will be the first to get up? 3:42 a.m. and the baby is crying. Again. Who will get up first? I know that you know that I am not asleep. I'm just faking. But I also know that you know that I know that you are faking. Because like me you have developed the qualities of an Academy Award-nominated fake sleeper. Who will break? And then you say If you get up, I'll show you my boobs. Done. Quiet time Late now and light low. Stories read, time for bed. Dad, you whisper, why do sumo wrestlers wear diapers? No one knows, buddy. Shhh. Why does the emperor stand behind the catcher? Umpire, pal. Not emperor. Shhh. What happened to the boy who cried wolf? He grew up and works in real estate. Go to sleep. Sleep finally comes. For me briefly. I wake with a start move like a cat head to the door. Wine time. Dad? (Shit! Dammit! Little bastard!) Yes, buddy? In "Rock-a-bye Baby," why is the baby on top of a tree? Because he wouldn't go to sleep. The baby fell out of the tree? He did, yes. And the cradle fell, too? The whole thing. Crashed to the ground. I won't lie, it was bad. Why do we sing that? Because it teaches us an important lesson. What's the lesson? Be quiet or we put you in a tree. Shhh. My breast-feeding breasts I know that to you it might seem like it would be fun for me to have my boobs squeezed as I unpack the groceries. It's not, though. I'm not feeling sexy. And they're sore and full of milk for our baby. Also Look at those jugs is not what I want to hear from you right now. (Ever?) And may I add that there is a time and a place to touch them. And that time was not at your uncle's wake last week. What if I just walked up to you and squeezed your penis? Oh. That was not the answer I was expecting. There isn't a chance in hell we're having sex now, is there? You have a look on your face as you get into bed. Well, I assume you have a look on your face as I can't quite see your face because you haven't looked at me for a while. Ever since we argued. There were two sides, of course. Fine. Maybe just the one side. And maybe I wasn't on it. And maybe I haven't apologized yet because I have the emotional intelligence of a can of gravy. (Your words, but not wrong.) But now you are in your underwear and a T-shirt. And while I can't see your face I can see your butt which looks very nice to me. I assume that my ability to see your butt is a signal from you to me that all is forgiven and that you want to have sex. But it turns out it's not a signal at all. It's just my ability to see. Did I mention I'm sorry? I say attempting to touch your non-signaling butt. Don't even, you say swatting my hand away. Very good then. Signal received. Labor pain After the epidural you managed to nap in the delivery room. And I watched you my lovely wife smiling at the thought of our child but also a little hungry. Did you pack a sandwich or anything? I whispered to you shaking your arm a bit when you didn't respond. So what I did was- because I didn't want to bother you anymore- I went across the street to grab a quick burger and a beer. I decided to sit at the bar because I was kind of tired too. Maybe I was just hungry but it was a really good burger. So then I had a second beer and got to chatting with the bartender. He was the one who suggested that maybe I should get back to the hospital when he found out what was going on. (Great guy.) And while I wasn't technically in the room with you when our son was born I was certainly there in spirit. We should all go back to that bar sometime. I am going to count to three I mean it, young lady. You do NOT want me to count to three. 1 . . . 2 . . . Dammit. She's not budging. What does one do after three? Go to four? Has anyone ever gone to four? What is the protocol on four? Is it possible to go to five? To ten? What happens at 100? What's the punishment there? A supermax prison in Colorado? I'm going to give you a second chance. Do what I asked and put your things away. No. Put your backpack away. No. Clean up your crayons? No. What are you willing to do? Watch Doc McStuffins? Deal. Privacy please As I sit on the toilet the door opens. There you stand almost two years old. Hi Dad! you say. Hi sweetie I respond. Are you going to the bathroom? you ask. Sure am, I say. But I need some privacy. Close the door please. And you do. From the inside. So, Dad, you ask. What should we talk about? I am fully aware that the wheels on the bus go round and round I get it. I know about the wheels and the horn and the babies. Everyone knows that. Here's something you might not know. The daddy on this bus is thinking This is not what I signed up for. And maybe the driver on the bus is thinking the exact same thing. Maybe he looks over at the daddy and he doesn't go Move on back. Maybe instead he nods and smiles. And the daddy nods and smiles. And the driver hits the gas and goes zoom, zoom, zoom so fast that the mommies on the bus say Jesus Christ almighty, slow down! And the driver screeches to a halt at the corner because he sees a sign for a bar called "Open at 9 a.m." and he and the daddy get off the bus and go into the bar. Call an Uber because this bus is out of service. Sing that verse, why don't you. The talk Well, son. Here we are in the car driving to Costco for a fifty-pack of paper towels. You're ten years old now. Wow. I'm eleven, Dad, you say. Why are we going the long way? And why are you smoking? Great questions. But here's a question for you. You know your penis, right? Wait. What? you ask, staring at me. Son, let's say a man has a penis and that penis . . . Dad. Is this a math problem? Like: if a train leaves Chicago at nine a.m. . . . Nope. Not a math problem. It's a penis problem. Well, not a problem per se. You see, a woman has a vagina. And the penis and vagina say hello. Ha! A talking penis! Glen at school does a talking penis thing with his lunch box. Forget Glen for a minute. When a man and a woman love each other . . . Are you and Mom getting a divorce?! No no. God no. Your mother likes me very much. No, I'm talking here about . . . well . . . Lovemaking. Intercourse . . . Oh. Glen says you need a boner first. Well, Glen is spot-on there. Come to think of it maybe just talk to Glen. Barney died, sweetheart It's sad, I know. How did he die? Well, Barney was old. And you know how dinosaurs are extinct? Extinct means you no longer deserve to live. That's just a rough definition of course. Anyway he was the last dinosaur. And now he's gone. And here's a funny story about Caillou. He went on vacation. Forever. You know how we go on vacation to your grandmother's for one agonizing week? I mean wonderful week? Well, it's like that. Only the food is probably better. Oh. And I saw on the news recently that Paw Patrol went on their last mission. Apparently they retired. And the Bubble Guppies moved to Phoenix. And Dora . . . poor Dora went a little too far exploring. Look, sweetheart. The Bourne Identity is on. You'll like this. What you call sex I call a wonderful time to make a mental list Is this good? you ask. It's very pleasant, I respond, distracted, immediately regretting the word "pleasant." Pleasant? you say, confused and hurt. Sorry, I meant amazing. What are you thinking about? you ask, trying to be sexy. You, I lie. Of course you. And . . . lots of . . . sexy things . . . Like the fact that we need milk. And paper towels. And glancing over at the windows I notice that they need to be washed. And I forgot to call my sister back. Oh, and my shoes at the cobbler. "Cobbler" is a funny word. Cobbler. Except I say cobbler out loud. And you say Oh yeah. You're my dirty little peach cobbler, aren't you? Sure, whatever. I'm not. But thank you for reminding me that I need to go to the farmer's market. Baby wipes If you had told me in my twenties that I would do this, I wouldn't believe you. But this morning, the baby's poop shot out like a cannonball and some of it landed in my hair. Well, I was pretty tired and I guess too lazy to shower. And I was late for work. So what I did was take a baby wipe and clean it out of my hair. Most of it, anyway. Then I went on with my day. Family vacation This is relaxing I think to myself on the first day of our vacation as I hide in the men's room of a Roy Rogers at a rest stop just off bumper-to-bumper I-95 while the kids continue fighting with tennis racquets in the back seat. And only five more hours to go. I don't want to leave this place I whisper aloud. Neither do I says the man in the next stall. Interpreting your preschool artwork I made this for you, Mommy! Honey. It . . . is . . . a-MAZ-ing. But you're not looking. You're looking at your phone. Sorry, honey. I see it now. Guess what it is! Oh my! Well I think it's pretty obvious . . . It's a duck on a plane! No it isn't! Oh. Well . . . is it a farmer . . . and a little round pig who might also be a beach ball? Noooo! Ahhh . . . a dog holding a lottery ticket? Mom! This part looks like a prison yard . . . Is it a prison . . . in the moonlight? Mommy! Tell me. It's a stick eating a grape! Good job, sweetie. Let's put it in the big pile by the fireplace where all of Mommy's special papers go. Weekend breakfast with the family I was up early on Sunday and did two loads of laundry and made a shopping list for the week and then made eggs and pancakes for everyone. My children hugged me. How lovely. You're Mrs. Squishy Butt my daughter said squeezing my butt laughing. My son and husband laughed too. You are, Mom! Your butt is so squishy! You have the squishiest butt in the whole house! Everyone kept laughing and saying I had a squishy butt. What fun! Except I guess I was a bit tired. The weekends can be long. And maybe I don't go to the gym as much as I should. You all stopped laughing though when I threw the bowl of pancake batter into the sink and shouted You can all go straight to hell! I may have overreacted. The heat between us In the kitchen after the babies are down we are finally alone. You in your baggy sweatpants stained fleece and old socks. I sense your sexuality. If I squint. I am so turned on I hear you say through a mouthful of cold mac and cheese spooned directly from a saucepan. Tired. You said I am so tired. My bad. I lean in to kiss your neck and am hit with a powerful scent that forces me back. New shampoo? I ask. No. I think that's spit-up. I feel the heat between us. And that heat is the front burner which I left on by mistake. 3:32 a.m. and I am sure the infant is taunting me The Navy SEALs do a thing so I have heard. Hell Week. Days and nights with almost no sleep. Pushed to their limit. Except it only lasts five days. Excerpted from Love Poems for People with Children by John Kenney All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
