My Kid Is So Money, And He Doesn't Even Know It

My memory may be a bit fuzzy, but I think it was Randy Watson, frontman for the groundbreaking band Sexual Chocolate, who first sang the lyrics, "I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way."

Very true, Randy. 

But as parents, while we're busy indoctrinating our offspring into our love for the Yankees or distrust of foreigners or whatever it is that makes us us, we often get so focused on imparting our wisdom that we fail to realize that if we simply pay attention, we can learn nearly as much from our kids as they from us. 

Granted, Ryan is the first child I've ever paid any significant amount of attention to, but I've found him to be a pretty interesting dude. Sure he struggles with verbal communication and shits his pants several times a day (more on that later), but he's also seen more bare female breast in the last 24 hours than I have in 34 years, so he's doing something right.

In fact, he's doing a lot of things right, but if we adults could steal just three things from him, I'd recommend these.

Wear Your Emotions on Your Sleeve

Do you see that face? That's the look of pure joy I get treated to every time the boy is happy. It's a beautiful thing because for that moment, you can rest assured that everything is right in his world.

Children don't have the skills -- nor do they see the need -- to temper or hide their emotions. When things are good, they let you know. When things are bad, well...they'll sure as hell let you know that, too. 

But it won't last. As Ryan grows into an adult, he'll inevitably learn that sometimes it's in your best interest to appear happy when you're really not, and other times, it's best to appear sad when you're really happy, like when your wealthy grandmother dies. Emotions, with age, become more of a calculated response than a window to our soul.

In no area of life are these bullshit parlor games more prevalent than in love. We're never more reticent to show our emotional hand than when it's our heart at stake. We do it in the name of not "coming on too strong" or appearing overanxious or desperate, but clearly, it's simply a defense mechanism to protect ourselves lest things go bad.

Sadly, Ryan will be no different. At some point, the boy is going to meet a girl he really digs, and while sharing a beer with his buddies, will have the following conversation (warning: one NSFW moment towards the end)

What makes Swingers, and this scene in particular, such a classic is that every guy between the ages of 21 and 45 has endured this exact useless exercise at some point in their single lives.

It's all needlessly complicated. Wouldn't we all be better off if our emotions were an open book, like our kids?

Think about what I had to go through to win my wife's attention. The story has already been told, but long story short, I quit my job, risked my livelihood, and moved 2,000 miles to take a lifeguarding gig on the off chance that I might run into a girl that, in our one previous meeting, gave no indication that she was aware I was alive.

But what if it hadn't gone down that way? What if when I first met Lauren, she made the Ryan face upon our introduction?

Now, that would have sped up the process a bit, wouldn't it? Instead of six months worth of guessing games, I would have known immediately that Lauren was helpless in the face of my animal magnetism, and I could have skipped that return flight to Denver so we could start our lives together.

So if you're single and reading this, cut the bullshit. If there's some guy or girl or one of each that tickles your fancy, let them know. Give them the Ryan face. Send them flowers. Tell them you're meant to be together and threaten to kill yourself if they don't love you the way you love them. Go with your heart.

(Ed note: It is not recommended that you tell them you're meant to be together and threaten to kill yourself if they don't love you the way you love them.)

How to Turn a Humiliating Moment Into a Sympathetic One

The other day, Lauren, Ryan and I were at my client's office, introducing the boy to the people that indirectly pay my salary. When we arrived, Ryan was still asleep, so we sat around making small talk for a few minutes. As we were talking, he suddenly became unsettled, and what began as a wiggle and whimper quickly evolved into a writhe and wail. 

Then he farted, and was calm once more.

And this was no ordinary fart. It was loud, lengthy, and its scent stung the nostrils. 

Here's the thing...do you know what all the people in that room felt at that undeniably awkward moment? Pity. Not embarrassment, not disgust, but pity. We could see that the poor kid was clearly in a great deal of discomfort, and if he needed to let one rip in order to alleviate that discomfort, well..so be it.

Now, that may work fine and dandy as an adorable infant, but pull that shit as a 34-year old male random adult in a crowded elevator, and suddenly you're worse than Hitler.

It doesn't seem fair, does it? Who's to say an adult can't be in just as much gastrointestinal distress as a child? When you think about it, the boy only eats formula and breast milk, how bad could his gas be? Slip the kid a Wendy's bacon double cheeseburger and a supersized Coke, then let's talk about stomach pains.

But as adults, we don't get that free pass. People look past the underlying pain, and focus solely on the social stigma attached to ridding oneself of said pain. For anyone over the age of 6, every flatulent moment ends like this (warning: NSFW moment at very end courtesy of Seth Rogan):



The lesson here is simple: if you want pity, you've got to earn it. The next time you find yourself in a public setting and last night's enchilada rears its ugly head, ham it up. Kick, scream, do whatever you have to do to draw attention to the fact that if you don't fanny burp and fanny burp soon, you might not make it. Maybe, just maybe, instead of the evil eye that stranger standing nearby will offer you a "poor baby" and a pat on the head.

But I wouldn't count on it.

Learn to Laugh at Yourself

Last night, I was home alone with Ryan when Maci started to take an unusual amount of interest in him. At first, I thought all the sniffing was a sign of affection, until I realized the majority of the attention was focused squarely on the boy's butt.

And that's when I discovered the mother of all poops. Having burst free from the restraints of his diaper in search of sunlight, it was covering his back, shoulders and the inside of his pajamas.

Minutes later, as I diligently scrubbed shit off my son's scapulas, he looked up at me and laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more.

Annoyed as I was, I knew there was something to be gained from this experience. If the kid can laugh through his worst moments, why can't we? Who among us hasn't tripped while running for the bus, or yelled "Hold on...I'm just cutting the cheese!!" in a crowded supermarket, or woke up late on a Sunday morning and forgot to wear pants to church?

And when this stuff happens, we've got two choices: we can either hang our head in shame and half-heartedly protest the church's outdated, oppressive pants requirement, or we can have a good laugh at ourselves and move on with our lives, like children do.

Sure, you may argue that Ryan was laughing because he doesn't know any better, and the timing was merely coincidental. But I think it was more than that. Perhaps, in their simplistic world view, children understand that we're all going to shit our proverbial pants at times, and there's no sense in getting worked up over it.

And that pretty much sums up how kids work. They smile when they're happy, cry when they're not, pass gas with impunity, and laugh off moments that would scar adults for decades. Meanwhile, parents are forced to hold in their emotions as well as their gas, and we take our setbacks far too hard.

So who's raising who?