Señoras del Leño

If you have kids, you know that sometimes they say things that, well, let's be honest... creeps you the heck out. These are 23 of my favorite "creepy" kid stories.

Are you living your own life, or are you actually living someone else's idea of what yours should be? Your answers to these simple questions may surprise you.

The Farmer's Daughter and I got to thinking about our age difference. And then our thinking got weirder, and weirder, with more photos, and more facts, and more weirdness...

A guy I knew, my age, died this week and that left me really thinking about all the young people I've seen die and what death (and living) really should be.

There is this line I have to walk most of the time. It’s very thin. Long. Overly fragile. Usually I'm walking it head high, confident, happy. But, every so often...

Are you living your own life, or are you actually living someone else's idea of what yours should be? Your answers to these simple questions may surprise you.

From kind donations, to simple acts of kindness, to just the right words at the right time, these 24 short true stories are proof that people really are good.

Pregnant moms everywhere seem to be looking for the secret to MAKE their babies come. From crazy to bizarre. I have been watching and I have noticed some things...

What I am about to say will probably be one of the most debated statements I’ve ever publicly made, but I’m going to say it anyway. Good dads fart on their kids. They just don’t fart at them, or toward them, or around them. No, they grab their squealing kids, wrap one leg around them, pin them down, and let it rip. Actually, let me rephrase. Good dads fart on their boys. I can’t imagine any little princess of mine would ever be put into any such predicament with my bazooka aimed at her, but then again, I did it to my sisters growing up, and they did it to me, so you never know. But, yeah. Good dads fart on their boys, the same way brothers do to each other both growing up and long into their twenties and thirties. If my brother and I ever stop, I’ll let you know. It’s a brotherhood thing. It’s a camaraderie thing. It’s a bonding thing. Womenfolk, I don’t expect you to understand, so just take me at my word for it. When you fart into your hand, release it into your brother’s face, and yell “cup of cheese!” as loud as you can… that’s the stuff that brings you closer together. When you sneak up to your sleeping brother and let a hot one waft right in his face… that’s love. When you snatch your brother’s baseball cap off his head, blow a hot one inside and quickly replace it… that’s just awesome. And it’s called a Brown Topper by the way. But for any of that to actually be awesome, you have to be willing to take it as often as you give it. You can’t get mad when you’re lying by the pool and a loud pfffttt is aimed your way while the perpetrator runs by laughing. You’ve gotta laugh too. And you’ve gotta laugh when it happens in the elevator, and in the lunchroom, and in the back back seat of Mom and Dad’s Station Wagon. You laugh because you know you’ll have your revenge. That is brothers for you. Er, at least that is me and my brothers. It’s our code and our law. But as a dad, I’ve had years and years of unreturned flatulent attacks on my kid. He has always laughed hysterically when I did it and never thought to return the favor. He was never mad or upset about it. He always thought it was great fun. It was like a giant, never-ending free pass for me to continue my lifelong brotherly fun with my own kid, but without ever having it dished back to me. Until, that is, last week when I was lying face down on the carpet in the middle of a wrestle with Noah, and he suddenly sprinted over to me, sat on my face, and let the biggest fart you could ever imagine rip right then and there. CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS PAGE I pushed him off of me. “Oooh, Noah! What are you doing! Don’t fart on my face!” I belted. Disgusted. He just laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And then he suddenly bolted straight-up. Sat on my face before I knew what he was doing. And he let another one rip. Again I threw him off of me and yelled for him to never do that again! Again he laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And in that moment, I knew… We were in an official lifelong war. I couldn’t get mad, and I couldn’t get upset, and I couldn’t put my foot down and say no to it because… that was the code. You fart. You get farted on. You give your licks and you take your licks like a man. Or like a brother, however you prefer. Since that horrid day last week, Noah has snuck up on me no fewer than a dozen times and started ferociously wiggling his butt in my direction. Half the time he can get one out. The other half the time it’s already sucked back up inside of him. But he’s getting better. And that scares me. You see, I happen to know just how often I tricked him into pulling my finger over the past six years. I happen to know how many times I pinned him between my legs and let one go. I happen to know how many covered wagons I gave him during our movie and popcorn nights.

This post has been recorded as a podcast. I'd suggest listening while you read this one. Did you know I have apparently been destroying families since 2010? It’s true. After all, a few people have very blatantly told me that now. Most let me ...

Meet… my chair. It’s been a really good chair. I’ve had it for at least seven years. Maybe eight. It’s done its job like a good chair should and it has never complained, even when I wasn’t the best companion to it (such as yesterday when I had a particularly potent bean burrito for lunch). It hasn’t squeaked. It hasn’t wobbled. It has definitely served its purpose. And then, about two months ago, its upholstery just started flaking off as if it had contracted some strange flesh eating bacteria. A little at first, and then in big chunks. Within days the arms started flaking, the seat started flaking, the head rest started flaking. At first it didn’t bother me, but eventually there were gaping wounds all over the chair and black pieces of vinyl all over the floor. It was time to get a new one. Now, that desk you see in the photo above? That’s a big wrap-around workstation desk. It goes for another three feet or so to the right. When I ordered my new computer, I promised Noah he could have my old one. I think it’s important for young kids to learn computers, especially in this day and age. We talked for weeks before my computer got here about all the things he could do on it. We were going to put it in his bedroom on his own desk. The more we talked about it the more excited he got. Then, the big day came when my new computer arrived. Noah stood over my shoulder as I unpacked it and he waited with baited breath while I transferred all the data over. Eventually I was ready to swap them out, and I asked him if he was ready. “YES!” he screamed with so much enthusiasm, and then suddenly he went quiet. His face drooped ever so slightly as some new thought wiggled its way into his thinking. “What’s the matter?” I asked. He looked at my big, cluttered desk. “Dad, I was just thinking maybe we could put it out here and I could be with you.” Now I looked at my big, cluttered desk. There really wasn’t a good place to put his computer, but my kid thought it would be special to be right next to his old man instead of exiled into his bedroom any time he wanted to get on it. And that really meant something to me. So, I did some rearranging, and I unscrewed some shelves, and I moved things around, and we made space for Noah to have his computer right next to mine. When it was all done, and everything was plugged in, and the mouse and the keyboard were all hooked up, I told Noah to go grab the folding chair from his bedroom. He eagerly ran to grab it and moments later he came dragging it back into the room. Once again that same droop suddenly returned to his face. He looked at my chair and then to his folding chair. Back to my chair. Back to his folding chair. “Dad?” he said. “What is it bud?” He thought for a minute, then the smile returned to his face and he said, “never mind.” He unfolded his chair, and he plopped himself down in front of his new computer. A week or so later I asked him if he wanted to play LEGO Star Wars while I got some work done. He enthusiastically ran to our desk and he once again stopped before he sat down. This time his look of concern was much deeper as he looked at our chairs. “Dad?” he said. “Yeah?” He sheepishly looked at the floor as if the idea that was about to come out of his mouth was a really bad one. “I was just wondering if I could get a black chair with wheels, too, so that we’re both the same.” The way he said it was so dang cute, and again it meant the world to me that he wanted to be like his old man. And I told him no. CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS PAGE I gave him a handful of reasons why not, and he stopped pressing. Then a couple weeks later he asked again. And a couple weeks after that he asked again. I told him no every time. Eventually we ended up in Costco and we passed by an aisle, in the middle of which sat three leather office chairs, one tiny one, two large ones.

Everybody farts. And that’s okay. In fact, It’s more than okay. Farts often can be some of the funniest things ever. At least in retrospect. But when they happen unexpectedly, sometimes they’re the most mortifying things ever. Like the time when I was in the steam room and I had been sitting all alone for at least the last ten minutes. Feeling safe, and not all that potent, I bent my naked self over and let a little air out. To my horror it smelled like the rotting carcass of three-day-old smashed raccoon. It'll all be fine, I thought. As long as no one else comes in. Yeah. Of course someone right then opened the door and came inside. Lucky for me, a fresh billow of steam had just filled the room and whoever it was couldn't see my face. They could, however, smell it, as was evidenced by the ever so quiet "Grrgghg" sound they made when they first walked in. In that steam room, the fresh steam doesn't last too long, so as soon as the other dude sat down, I stood up and made a B-line for the exit, leaving him to think really hard about whatever he had done wrong to deserve such a thing. LOL. That was my story. Here are your stories. And I call this series horrifying panty burps because one of you in your comments called farts panty burps. Which I thought was way too funny. HORRIFYING PANTY BURPS VOL. 4 "This is my daddy. He farts all the time." - my 2 year old daughter, introducing me to complete strangers at the grocery store. I was riding my horse, just walking, and let one rip. It reflected off the saddle so loud that my horse spooked and took off running. It took weeks to get her to walk in that corner of the arena again! My sister and I were just two little girls visiting their two aunts one summer. One aunt farts really loud and the other, who is partially deaf, yells from the back room, "was that the phone?" When my daughter was 3, she had a terrible habit of wrapping her arms around my legs and burying her face wherever it happened to land. Well, one day, without thinking a thing of it, I let out an SBD. A second later, of course, here she comes. She wraps her arms around my legs and buries her face I'm sure you can guess where. Her reaction was priceless! She backed away as fast as she possibly could, and with the most sour, disgusted look on her face said sympathetically, "oh mommy, you stink." My grandma was in ballet class and when she bent down she let out a huge fart. Everyone looked at her so she said, "phew! I haven't done that in five years!" I went on a mission for my church. While there, some old fat dude with no teeth tries to hit on me. He even does the "stretch, arm around the girl" move. I have not been touched by a dude in nearly a year and a half at this point. I'm wondering how I'm going to get out if it. Then I think, "I have to fart. I can't. I'm in public. Whatever, dude, just drop it." So I do. Dude removes his arm, takes a whiff, and leaves. That's how I roll. The question is, should I proud or embarrassed I smelled bad in France? My kids and I were in church, near the back of the room. My 3 yo son was sitting on my lap listening to the speaker... He let one rip, and I whispered (very quietly) into his ear, "Did you just fart on me?" As loudly as he was capable of, he yelled, "I didn't fawt on you, I fawted on me!" and proceeded to break down giggling. I was mortified as many, many heads turned to look at us with smiles on their faces and the speaker had to stop because he couldn't control his laughter... My friend farted a dude off her at a concert. He had no personal space boundaries and deserved it. Walking down the aisle at the grocery store with my fiance and our daughter, the local vet is walking in front of us and all of a sudden, it hits my nose...that smell. I leaned down and quietly whispered to her, "honey, did you have a toot?" to which she replied, rather loudly "no mommy, it was that lady" and pointed to the vet.

Over on the Single Dad Laughing Facebook Page, I asked a simple question. "What is the most embarrassing thing your child has ever blurted out to others?" More than 1,500 of you answered. And, just as I had hoped, you didn't fail to deliver some of the best gut-grabbing laughs I've had in weeks. Here are a few of your replies... Oh, and if you missed the first installment, be sure to check that out here. The Most Embarrassing Things Ever Blurted Out By Kids - Vol. 2 We were at Walmart when a threeish boy in the basket in front of us waves at my four year old granddaughter. She tries to ignore him but I told her to tell him hi. She wouldn't do it so I told the other child, "She thinks boys have cooties, I guess" and my granddaughter shouts out, "No mawmaw, boys have penises." My niece, after spending time at her Dad's, goes shopping with her Mom and in the checkout line looks at her and says "Mommy, you’re my little hemorrhoid!" While in a changing room with my 3 young sons, one of them looks at me and seeing the stretch marks across my belly, says (in that little child voice that carries throughout the whole changing room and possibly the store)... "Mommy! You have stripes! Like a tiger!" When my friend moved to heavily churched NC from NYC and took her son for his first physical, it included an eye exam. When the nurse pointed to the "+" sign, he looked up at her, narrowed his eyes and offered a guess, “One of those "church thingies”?” I was returning a dress to Kohl's. When the lady asked why I was returning it my 6-year old replied, "when she bends over her butt hangs out!" My son was three years old and saw an older gentleman with quite the pot belly. My son asked rather loudly (to me, but within ear shot of the man), "When's the baby gonna come out?" In the pet department at Walmart, my seven year old niece is looking for a toy for her new puppy "Boston." She finds a ball on a shelf and yells "Daddy, Boston loves to play with his balls!". My then three year old son, loudly piping up at "Children's Moment" during a church service: "My daddy is at home, sleeping on the sofa!" My brother, while very young in the 1970's, asked why our Doctor had brown skin. My Mum explained, in front of the Doctor, that he was of Indian origin. My brothers response was "Wow! Do you know any Cowboys?" My son, who couldn't read at the time, opened his fortune cookie in a crowded restaurant and screeched loudly, 'Here is what mine says - if you poop in the toilet remember to flush!' My then four year old yelled at his teacher "stop telling me what to do, you're not my wife!" To her kindergarten teacher: "My mom only drinks coffee and wine." CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS PAGE My then 3 year-old son pointed at the crucifix in church and loudly said, "Hey! It's Jesus on a stick!" Two years later my then three year-old daughter pointed at a crucifix in a bookstore and said, "Hey! It's that guy from our church!" “Look mom, Pilgrims.” They were Amish people. In the middle of a crowded Target on a Saturday morning: "Mommy, don't forget to buy razors. You need to shave." Recently, my daughter opted to take the stairs in our building after seeing a group of overweight tenants boarding our elevator. I told her I agreed to use the stairs because it was crowded and I am a bit claustrophobic. Before the elevator closed, she replied loudly, "yeah and the elevator only holds two thousand pounds". When my daughter was three she told my family at Thanksgiving, “My mom thinks Barak Obama is sexy.” My mother told me that once when I was three my babysitter took me to the grocery store. I nonchalantly looked up from the cart and asked her if, when I got as old as her, would I have a mustache too? "My mom puts a for-free sign on me and makes me sit at the end of the driveway." My daughter in our grocery store: “My Mom isn't just getting fat she is pregnant.”

Well, it’s official. I now have my first BIG Harley fail tucked under my belt. The other day I was out in my garage, getting ready to take Delilah for a spin. I live in an apartment complex surrounded by garages. They’re all stacked, one right next to the other. We tenants who feel all sorts of special by having our own garage can rent them from the landlords. I had just strapped on my helmet and mounted my bike when I suddenly heard this high-pitched wheieiieieieieiieeieieiie sound approaching. Kind of like a beefy weed whacker. Another guy on a motorcycle, much smaller than mine, and definitely not a Harley-Davidson, passed by just as I started my ignition. He glanced over into my garage as he passed. I revved my huge non weed whacker Harley-Davidson engine, just to make sure he heard it. I never felt like a badder bad ass than I did right at that moment. I had my bad ass black leather Harley jacket on. I had my bad ass Harley half helmet secured firmly to my head. I was wearing my big black bad ass Harley boots. I had on my bad ass Maui Jim’s sunglasses. And I was ready to roll. I put the bike into first gear and rolled out of the garage where I braked so that I could hit the garage door opener and stash my keys to which the opener was attached. My bad ass Harley gloves were sitting in my lap. I always put them on after I shut the garage door. And then… it happened. CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS PAGE As I pulled out of my garage and braked, I noticed that the other guy on the puny little weed whacker motorcycle had parked his bike in the garage right next to mine. He was exiting just as I stopped. Perfect time to really be a bad ass, I’m sure I thought. After closing the door, I hurried and stashed the keys into my right pocket and zipped it closed. I would have to hurry if I was gonna feel all bad ass driving my Harley off around the corner and out of site while this guy stood there in my exhaust only wishing he could be half as bad ass as me. The problem was, I forgot that the bike was still in first gear. And that means that when I let my left hand off of the clutch so that I could put my gloves on, my motorcycle is going to do funny things. If you’ve ever driven a stick-shift you know what I’m talking about. You accidentally let out the clutch and the entire car jerks forward and dies. Well, yeah. That’s what happened to me and my Harley. I let go of the clutch, and it jerked massively forward and died. To make matters worse, my thumb hit the horn when it did and it honked a MIGHTY big honk right at this guy at the same time that I jerked forward. And to make matters even worse, I let out this loud, ugly, groany, strange, “WHOOAHAHAH” when it happened. After I had stabilized the bike, I looked up at the weed whacker motorcycle guy. He had a huge effing smile spread across his face. I gave him a look that said, you did not just witness that. He simply said, without slowing his pace at all, “it’s okay man. It happens to all of us,” and he disappeared around the corner. I laughed for a bit and then silently cursed karma as I started my bike back up, revved my engine, and sped away as a not-so-all-that-bad-ass Harley man after all. Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing PS. Would love your comments. And yes, it’s more than okay to make fun of me.

When I was a teenager, I really wanted my own dog. For years I begged Mom and Dad to let me get one. Their answer was always no, and they always had a good reason for not giving me what I wanted. I wouldn’t clean up the dog poop. I wouldn’t keep it bathed. I wouldn’t take it for its daily walks. I wouldn’t _______________. You fill in the blank. They just didn’t want to have another dog. I never relented, though. I brought it up at least weekly at the dinner table, or while they were driving me to band concerts, or any time I finished my chores, or any time I felt particularly lonely, sad, or awkward, which… did I mention I was a teenager? Yeah, so that was pretty much a daily thing. I mean, how could it not be when my face was one giant pimple ready to be popped and my idea of showering was wiping my pits with a wet wad of toilet paper every other morning? That dog would be the answer to all of my problems. I just knew it. That dog would love me. It would protect me. It would be faithful to me. It wouldn’t care about anything the way all those crazy people always did. I had dreams of getting a Bulldog, or a Boxer, or something else equally as tough and lovable. I think I have always been able to relate to those bully breeds most. They look mean and huge and ornery on the outside, but inside they’re sweet, and good, and they just want to be loved unconditionally. That was me. Then, after those years of begging, Christmas came. I had an unusually small stack of presents compared to the other kids, which meant one thing. Inside one of them was something awesome. But, I got to the end of my presents and there wasn’t anything that awesome at all. I think the best thing I got was a Weird Al Yankovic CD. As I sat trying to hide my disappointment while my brother opened a fancy remote control car and my sister opened her karaoke machine, I got more and more depressed. Then suddenly, at the peak of my dejection, Mom hushed everyone. “Shhhh,” she demanded. “Did you hear that?” Everyone went silent. No one heard anything and we began to tell her so. Then she shushed us again and we all listened until we heard a tiny yap somewhere far away in the house. My heart leapt inside my chest. Was that a… it couldn’t be… what could it… I couldn’t even finish a thought, I was so excited. Mom stood up and excused herself. She returned not more than a few moments later carrying a small dog kennel wrapped completely in wrapping paper except a few holes and the handle. “I think Dan has one more present.” She said it tauntingly like she thought it was the funniest thing on Earth that she had tricked me into thinking I was going to have a crappy Christmas. I didn’t care. My blood was racing through my body. My mind was screaming. I was frozen. What would it be? A short squashy-faced puppy ready to turn into my fellow beefcake? My Boxer? My Bulldog? A Mastiff maybe? A Giant Schnauzer? I didn’t know and I didn’t care. It was a dog and it was going to be mine. I finally swallowed the lump in my throat and smiled at Mom. She walked over to me and set it in front of me. “Merry Christmas!” she chirped. I just looked at it for the longest moment until I heard tiny padded feet pawing at the floor of the kennel followed by another tiny yap. I reached out and slowly started stripping paper away. I purposefully didn’t look inside, afraid that whatever was in there would disappear if I did. When the last of the paper was gone, I pulled the kennel onto my lap, pinched the door latch together, swung the front open, and looked inside. There at the back of the kennel, happy, and energetic, and so excited to see me was a little… Black… Poodle. CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS PAGE My heart immediately sunk. A Poodle? Were they serious? A freaking curly-haired long-snouted Poodle? “It’s a Toy Poodle!” Mom was sure to inform me. I think Grandma bred them or something. I’m not sure.