Señoras del Leño

Before I start this post, please let me request that you hum some Beach Boys while you read it. Don’t worry about why you should do it, just do it. Anyway… I never thought I’d wish that I had strep throat. But I do. Right now I’d give just about anything to just have strep throat. At least then I could pop a pill and be done with it. About ten days ago my throat started feeling a little sore. About that same time my ear started aching. I just assumed it was an ear infection. I get them sometimes because I have a few grains of sand embedded in my ear drum from being pinned by a large wave while body boarding a few years ago. Those few grains were what the doctor couldn’t get out after multiple high pressure inner ear washings (which I assure you are super fun to go through). I tell you about being pinned by a wave only because I want you to think I’m an awesome surfer type. Now just assume that I have the chiseled body with six-pack abs and crazy nice pecs to go with it and my illusion is complete. Ooooh, and throw in some of those sexy v-lines that I, ummm, definitely would have in this over-indulgent imagination of yours. Now that I am a sexy surf god in your mind, perhaps I won’t sound so whiny as I finish this post. Or maybe that will make me sound more whiny. Hm. Overly beautiful people complaining can be annoying. Whatever. So, usually my ear infections go away on their own, but this time it was getting worse and my sore throat was getting worse alongside it. Finally I looked into the back of my throat with a flashlight. And I saw something that looked a lot like this, only the sore was much bigger. Think dime size. And now, since you don’t want every gory and overly boring detail, I will give you the short version of the rest of the story. I panicked. I’d never seen a huge sore like that in my throat. So, I coughed up the $100 for Instacare (pun intended). Before I ever saw a doctor, the tech ran a strep test. Negative. The doctor herself spent a total of 1 minute 29 seconds in the room with me. Two seconds were spent looking in my throat. Four seconds were spent telling me, “that’s just a canker sore. There’s nothing we can really do about that. You just have to wait it out.” One minute was spent telling me to go buy the spice Alum and rub that on my throat. “It’ll be gone by tomorrow,” she said. And the rest was spent coming in, looking in my ears real quick, and walking back out. I then sat there alone for a good five minutes just to get a little more bang for my hundred bucks. Well, that and to check in on my March Madness bracket (not to brag or anything, but I picked three of the final four). I only left because a technician finally stuck her head in and told me I could leave. It has now been five days since I saw the doctor. Here’s what I know. The sore has gotten bigger not smaller. I’m pretty sure I have more cankers down deeper in my throat. I can’t sleep. Eating hurts. Real bad. Drinking anything hurts. Real bad. Drinking beer feels like I’m drinking acid. I went from last place in my March Madness group (out of 25) to fifth place. If you go to page two, you can see my bracket. And you can then start calling me the come-back kid. In less than one week, you shall call me champion of the universe. Seriously. I think I’m the only one in the world who picked Michigan to win. And they shall win. And I shall end in first place. Alum burns like hell, makes it hurt worse, hits your mouth like raw lemons mixed with horribly strong pickle juice, and is useless against whatever I’ve got going on back there. If my heart rate goes above 80, my throat swells and I can’t breathe well. Which means no gym for me. Which makes me cranky. The Farmer’s Daughter is such a nice person to have around when I’m feeling crappy. She does things like make my bed, straighten my house, and let me snuggle away my sorrows.

True story. Last week I left my debit card at a fine dining establishment. And by dining, I mean Texas Roadhouse. And by fine I mean that their dinner rolls are like crack to me. Anyway, I didn’t realize my mistake until the next morning when I went to get gas and discovered that I was credit cardless. So, back to the restaurant I begrudgingly went, hoping that I had left it there. I walked through the doors. It was lunchtime. I asked the hostess if my card was there. She told me she’d go check and wandered off. I stood standing where she left me, looking at memorabilia on the wall, annoyed that I was there at all. Then a commotion erupted somewhere in the restaurant. People were yelling, people were running, and suddenly a group started gathering around a certain table. My curiosity got the best of me, so I shuffled around the corner to see what was going on. A woman was on her hands and knees next to a table where a young married couple was still seated. She was reaching both arms beneath the table. Her husband knelt high beside her, also gazing under the table, saying something into the darkness. It was an odd scene. At first I thought someone might be hurt. Then as I got closer (but not close enough that they’d know I was snooping), I could hear what they were (rather loudly) saying. “Come on out of there!” the woman on the ground said loudly. She was frustrated. “Sweetheart, you need to come out!” the man kneeling beside her said less loudly. He was smiling. The people at the table were sitting as if they were in complete shock and had no idea what to do or how to respond to whatever it was going on. I knew what had happened. Someone’s kid had run from mom and dad and hid under a stranger’s table. It happens. I know, not that exciting. But then the man at the table pulled himself out of the booth. “Here, let me get out of your way so you can get her,” he said. He started laughing. His wife was suddenly now giggling hysterically as she watched him exit. And just as the child’s mother crawled further under the table to extract her child, a tiny girl popped out from beneath the table, right up onto the bench that had just been vacated. And she was naked. I’m talking buck naked. She didn’t even have socks on. She was smiling as big as the day she'd one day get married. She couldn’t have even been two yet. Dad stood up quickly and yanked her off the bench. Mom crawled back out and stood up, embarrassed as all get up. “I’m so sorry,” she said as she took her child from her hubby and raced off toward the bathroom where I assume the original escape took place. Dad attempted to explain to the married couple what had happened as the laughing man took his seat at his table again. People everywhere were laughing. “She had a bad accident and my wife took her into the bathroom to change her clothes and…” Dad said. Both the young husband and the young wife cut him off to tell him it was okay, it had made their day, it was so funny, it happens, etc. etc. Just then the hostess trotted out with my debit card in hand. And as I laughed myself out of the building, I was suddenly not so annoyed that I had left it there. That was some funny stuff right there. Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing

It’s been a long time since I wrote The Disease Called “Perfection,” and to this day I still find myself thinking sometimes that I suck because the people around me are so much more perfect at the things that cause me constant struggle. And sometimes in the middle of feeling sucky, I go for walks. And I walk around neighborhoods where everything looks the same. And somehow everyone looks the same. And all the yards are the same. And all the roofs. And the fences. And the vehicles. And when I see all that, I remember that we live in a world where so often everyone does everything they possibly can to hide all of the ways they suck behind a curtain of “normal.” Behind a curtain of perfection. And when they do that, everyone thinks they’re alone in their suckiness. And then I remember that some struggles are my own. And other struggles are universal even though we usually think we’re alone with them. And the very things that I sometimes feel down about are going on under the roofs of every home I walk by. Here are a few that come to mind. 9 Big Ways Pretty Much All People Suck(At Least Occasionally) 1. Sometimes I stuff my face with the worst stuff ever. Not often, though often enough. I just start eating junk, and then I find myself eating more junk, and as much as I hate myself for it, I find myself eating even more junk. I literally can’t stop sometimes, once I get started. Why I think I suck: I just know I can’t be truly healthy because every other healthy human being is the master of their diets. They would never, ever, ever lose control the way I sometimes do. To do so is a demonstration of extreme weakness. Right? Wrong. Why I don’t actually suck (and why you don’t either): Every person on earth has their moments of weakness when it comes to putting crap into their bodies. Those people with rock hard abs and killer bodies, yeah, they may do it less often and to a lesser degree, but they do it too. Those people who are always talking about their healthy eating habits? Yeah, they definitely do. Any person who tells you differently is full of crap. 2. Sometimes I waste entire days. Not often, though more often than I should, I wake up and I can’t find the energy or motivation to get going. And I sit all sweaty and nasty like a lump of lard. And I watch TV. And I never get dressed. Or showered. And I don’t exercise. And I never do anything. And eventually I go to bed and feel like the biggest waste of space. Why I think I suck: I just know I can’t be truly successful because every other successful person would never, ever, ever do that. They never rest. They never have days where they can’t get going. And they have every tool in place to make sure that such failures never happen. Right? Wrong. Why I don’t actually suck (and why you don’t either): Every person, at some point or another, has days where their brain shuts down and needs a day of nothing to restart. No person can go forever and remain perfectly motivated all the time. Even the most successful people on earth have days where they sit in their own grossness. If any person says otherwise, they’re full of crap. Guaranteed. 3. Sometimes I am a big fat jerk to others. Not very often, though it does happen, I am pissy and ornery to other people. Sometimes it’s to customer service people. Sometimes it’s to salespeople. Sometimes it’s to a family member or to my child. I’m grumpy. Moody. And nothing nice seems to come out of my mouth. Why I think I suck: I just know I can’t be a truly kind person because every other kind person would never, ever, ever be a jerk to others. They wouldn’t be grumpy or rude. To anyone. They are kind to all people, in all places, and at all times. Right? Wrong. Why I don’t actually suck (and why you don’t either): Every person on earth has moments when the “nice part of their brains” don’t work. Even the nicest people ever have certain people that just rub them the wrong way.

When I was 12 years old, I did one of the hardest things I’ve still ever done to this day. I swam an entire mile in a lake that wasn’t even 60 degrees. And all for a stupid patch. Well, a patch and the glory and honor of doing it along with all the other much more fit boys at Scout camp that year. For years I’d watched the other boys in my troop do everything awesome without me, both in and out of Scouting. As a portly and often friendless boy, I’d sat benched in the dugout at baseball games and sidelined at soccer games. I’d stood outside the group at recess as they kickballed and buttballed and freeze tagged. I had watched them all earning trophies in their various activities and sports over the years. Medals. Badges. Pins. Certificates. Pats on the back. Life was very rewarding for the other boys. And I guess you could say life was sometimes rewarding for me, too. I mean, I remember about that same time of my life I went to visit my grandpa. I moseyed out of the car. He held his hands out as if to hug me and instead of embracing me, he grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “you’re turning into quite a fat boy.” Then he swatted me on the butt and sent me in the house. I guess that was kind of rewarding. I mean, at least he noticed me. Haha. Was that facetious and pity-invoking enough? And so, back to Scout camp, when the opportunity arose to strip down almost naked and jump into a freezing lake to earn a patch that said I’d done something awesome and almost impossible, I made sure I scribbled my name onto the sign-up sheet that was being passed around. I had been swimming before. I could swim to the other side of the pool back home. And back. No sweat. And, I was a master floater. I could float on my back for hours if I felt the inkling to do so. And it wasn’t because I was fat that I could float. Geez. It was because I had big lungs. Yeah, let’s go with that. Anyway, there was a lake at this camp. It was exactly 0.25 miles from one side to the other. To earn our patch, we would have to swim to the other side and back, twice. I wasn’t worried. It was just swimming, after all. Not long jumping or running the mile. It was swimming. The day arrived for our one mile swim. All the boys went down to the lakeside and began stripping their shirts off. I kept mine on as long as possible. My boobs were too fantastic to be flaunting them for those boys. Then, the large-mustached Scout leader stood in front of all of us and began barking rules and instructions. There would be people in canoes paddling along side us all along the way in case we got into trouble.  We were to immediately yell for help if we felt that we were in danger. There was no time limit. This wasn’t a race. It seemed that he was looking straight at me while he heavily emphasized all of these things. I glared back as if to say, “dude, it’s swimming. What could happen?” Leaders and life guards piled into canoes and launched into the lake. The mustache-guy blew his whistle and hollered, “okay! Let’s go!” A steady flow of boys immediately dove into the lake. Screams began howling through the air. “Oh my gosh, it’s so cold!” Every boy had to say it at least once. Most said it like clockwork every fifty feet or so until they finished their mile. After all, the water was beastly cold. I was in the back of the pack. Just before I jumped into the lake, I pulled my shirt off and tossed it onto the shore. As far as I could tell, only mustache-man saw me do it. Phew. And, I started swimming. I was fat. But it was still so effing cold. Immediately it felt as if some over-zealous acupuncturist was jamming needles into me from all sides. “Oh my gosh! It’s so cold!” I yelled. I had to say it too. Those other boys weren’t kidding. The last canoe stayed with me as I swam. “Don’t worry if you can’t finish,” they said. “There’s nothing wrong with calling it quits if you need to.” That was about fifty feet in. “I can do this.

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 with a group of new friends and I was desperate to both

What I’m about to write is a very sensitive subject, and because of that I will have to leave many details out. Thank you for understanding. I have often written about my good relationship with my ex-wife, her husband, and the co-parenting rapport w...

About two months ago, my nephew’s mother told me the story of her child sneaking into her room and stealing $20 off of her nightstand. I then took the story and decided it would be a great teaching moment for my own son, so long as I left out any and all names. After all, it’s not my place to spread the details of specific people’s shortcomings. That’s when it becomes gossip, I suppose. Now, don’t ask me why I felt the need to use the $20 thievery as a lesson. Maybe it’s because Noah doesn’t have any siblings in this home. I mean, aren’t some of the greatest lessons learned watching your brothers and sisters get busted? Don’t the greatest moments of satisfaction as a child come from watching them get it handed to them, knowing that you are “the good kid” in your parents eyes, at least in that moment? Don’t parents in general get to use the big lessons of one kid to teach all of their other kids? So yeah, my kid doesn’t have any siblings in this home, so I had to borrow one. And I told Noah. “Guess what. One of your cousins stole twenty dollars off of the table by his mom’s bed and he got in big trouble.” We’d never had a good chance to talk about stealing because as far as I know he’s never done it. I’d never had the chance to put the fear of the law, the fear of dad, and the fear of all thieving things into him. Let me remind you that this was two months ago. As soon as I said it, he was desperate to know whodunit. He didn’t care one lick about the lesson to be learned, the consequences the perpetrator received, or what drives people to steal in the first place. He HAD TO KNOW RIGHT THEN who it was! I told him I wouldn’t tell because it wasn’t my place. Dammit, if he wasn’t going to learn a lesson about stealing, he was going to learn a lesson about gossiping. This made him even more desperate. I reassured him that no matter what he did, said, or offered, I would never ever tell him. Ever. “That wouldn’t be right,” I let him know. This all took place on a car ride home. By the time I pulled into our carport, Noah had offered me the following if I would tell him who it was: He promised he would never tell anyone. EVER. He promised to clean his room when we got home. He promised to clean the whole house when we got home. He promised he would never lie to me again as long as he lived. He promised he would give me all of his toys. He promised me any and all money that he got for his upcoming birthday. He willingly agreed to give up his iPad (his favorite time waster) for one month. Then two months. Then a year. Then he said he’d just straight-up give it to me and never play it again… IF ONLY I’D TELL HIM WHO IT WAS! CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE. I just kept laughing and telling him. Nope. No way. There was nothing in the world that was enough to get me to spill the beans because when you think you are doing what’s right, you stick to it no matter what. Let me remind you that this was two months ago. Since that day, he has brought it up no fewer than four times each week. And each time he brings it up, he offers me more… and more… and more… and more… IF ONLY I’LL TELL HIM WHO IT WAS! HE NEEDS TO KNOW WHO TOOK THE MONEY OFF OF HIS MOM’S NIGHTSTAND AND HE NEEDS TO KNOW NOW! With my loving and laughing guidance, I have now asked if he’d depart with the following (and much more) if I would tell him who it was, and then I always told him “sorry, still no way” every time he agrees. His first car. His first house. His future wedding ring. His entire wardrobe, including the clothes on his body. I’m pretty sure I could contractually obligate him to give me his firstborn child if I drag this out long enough. Maybe I could cinch a deal that would give me 50% of his income and any future holdings for the rest of his life. Heck, I could probably get him to sign over his right to breathe eventually. You know,

Last week I picked Noah up from school. It was a glorious week all around. Noah's mom and stepdad were off vacationing on some island in the pacific which shall remained unnamed. Your only clues are 1) I used to live there. 2) I've cruised to all the islands there. 3) On one island is the Na Pali Coastline, one of my favorite places on earth. Anyway, I got Noah for the whole week all to myself, and it was beyond awesome. I picked him up from school, he climbed into the car, and we started our usual post pick-up conversation. "How was school?" "Fun." "What'd you do today?" "Played." "Fun! What else did you do besides play?" "Dad, my teacher wasn't even there today, and we had a new teacher, and guess what. She was insane." I started laughing. I didn't even know he knew the word insane, let alone what it meant. "She was insane?" "Yeah, she was INSANE!" He was so excited as he told me. "What do you mean she was insane?" Noah likes to roll his eyes when I ask questions that he feels I should already know the answer to, and he did just that this time, too. "Daaaaaad, she was insane, like where you speak Spanish!" I started laughing again. "She was insane because she speaks Spanish?" More eye rolling. "Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaad! You know, where we want to go when it's summer!" "Ooooh. You mean Spain? She was in Spain?" "Yeah, dad. That's what I said. She was insane." Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing

Can I just ask something? Where are all the Mormons that promised to hate me? From the age of eleven until I finally accepted myself (publicly) last December as something other than straight, I was promised to be hated by all the Mormons in my life should I ever actually be anything other than straight. At least  I think I was. I mean, it was that fear of being hated that caused me so much anguish over the years. It was that fear of being hated that caused me to hate myself for so long. It was that fear of being hated that tainted and destroyed so many parts of me. It was that fear of being hated that kept me silent, even to myself. It was that fear of being hated that made me want to end my own life. At least I think it was. I fully expected to be hated by so many people when I accepted myself. And everyone I feared would hate me (that I actually knew in real life) was, coincidentally or not, a Mormon. I live in Utah. Almost my entire family is Mormon. So many of my friends are Mormon. My neighbors are mostly Mormon. That’s just Utah for you. And it’s no secret that the Mormon church is adamantly against homosexuality. They have pumped millions of dollars into protecting what they consider to be the proper and correct family structure, fighting legislation that would grant equal rights to “other” types of families. And having once been a Mormon myself, I can tell you that anti-gay doctrine was preached to me my whole life. We’ve already talked about that. It was thrown in my face around every corner I turned. There was fear surrounding it. There was anger. There was never-ending strong words being flung in all directions. At least I think there was. But what I feared would happen and what actually happened were as different as pepper and sugar. I mean, not a single Mormon has been anything but loving and supportive to me. At least to my face. Not a single Mormon has attacked me or criticized me or preached hellfire and damnation to me. At least not to my face. Where are all the Mormons that promised to hate me? And it’s not like they’ve all just tolerated my existence since then. They have lovingly embraced me into their lives, even more so than before. They’ve accepted me. All of them. My friends. My family. My neighbors. My community. At least to my face. The closest thing I had to a problem was an intense two hour talk with my mom. But even then we hugged at the end, and have just loved each other ever since, and more than before. And all that makes me wonder… How much of it has been in my head over the years? How much of it was implanted by hearing stories of other people surrounded by other Mormons? How much of it was implanted in my mind from a much less accepting time and a much less tolerant part of my life, when things hadn’t progressed the way they apparently have today? CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE. CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS PAGE. Where are all the Mormons that promised to hate me? This is Utah we’re talking about! And did any of them ever actually promise to hate me? Have any of the Mormons in my life actually hated any person that was anything other than straight? As I looked back over my life during my darkest times all I could think about was every wise-crack about “other than straights”. Every joke. Every demeaning or derogatory statement. Every Sunday lesson about the sinful side of it all. Every sermon given about the only proper family unit that should be allowed in our great country. Every jab. Every fear that was spoken aloud. Every. Negative. Thing. And there were a lot. Those were the words that turned into promises for me. Promises to hate me. Those were the promises that filled me with so much fear and dread and self-loathing. Now, as I look back to the love (and not just tolerance) that has been poured out on me, all I can seem to think back and see are the sermons of love and not judging.

I met The Farmer’s Daughter while climbing a frozen waterfall deep in the Alps this past winter. I was on my way up. She was on her way down. As we brushed by each other, we laughed and said hello. Sparks flew. So many sparks, in fact, that the waterfall melted and we both tumbled into a soft snow bank below. From there it was history. Okay, that was a lie. I met The Farmer’s Daughter while backpacking through Europe last summer. We both were staying at the same hostel. The owner of the hostel had kidnapped her and was about to torture her, but I busted on in there, rescued the pretty lady, and we made our escape. From there it was history. Okay, that was a lie. I met The Farmer’s Daughter while in Africa, volunteering at the relief hospitals for women and children who were victims of the bad crap going on over there. There was a serious blood shortage, so we both volunteered to give another pint of our own blood. We were laying on cots next to each other as they sucked what little blood we could still spare, and as we looked at each other our souls spoke loud and clear that we were meant to be. The rest was history. Okay, that was a lie. Here’s the real truth. I met the Farmer’s Daughter on… a farm. I needed a few extra bucks for the holidays, so I took on a job as a ranch hand. One of my jobs was helping her water the animals in between slinging hay bales and herding cattle. It started out a simple crush, but we quickly fell in love. From there, the rest was history. Okay, fine. That was a lie too. Here’s the real truth. We met online. But it is a romantic story. I swear. It may not involve near death experiences, heroics, or fantastic adventures, but it does involve weird circumstances. And weird circumstances count for something, right? GO TO PAGE 2 I had removed my match.com profile many months earlier. I was done with online dating I had decided. I had no shortage of dating opportunities and there were plenty of irons in my fire, if you know what I mean. Plus, I just hadn’t had the best of luck on dating websites. She also had shut down her match.com account some time before. For pretty much all the same reasons. Though, looking at her you’ll probably agree with me in my assumption that she had a lot more irons in the fire than I did. If you knew her you’d have no doubt. Anyway, I remember three days before I met her, I was sitting getting my hair cut by Tilly. We are always commiserating with each other about our dating lives. I told her, “I’m done with dating for a while. I’m officially on a dating fast until further notice.” And I meant it. I needed a break from it. Then, the very next day, I had this feeling I should reopen my match.com account. I shook it off. That was weird, I thought as I put it into the filing cabinet of ignored thoughts. An hour later it hit me again, only harder. Again I ignored it. An hour later, it hit me super hard. Geez, okay, okay! I thought as I begrudgingly set my account back up. I knew Tilly would never let me live it down, but I had to listen to whatever was telling me to do it. And the very first girl I saw when I got back on was Sarah. The Farmer’s Daughter. And the moment I saw her profile picture, I just looked at it, and I knew she was someone that was going to be in my life. And I don’t know how I knew that, I just did. And so I emailed her. And I didn’t know what to say. So I just said, “you are beautiful. And I would be really stupid not to email you.” And I left it at that. And it didn’t surprise me at all that she responded. Or that we quickly setup our first date. Because, I just knew that she was going to be in my life somehow. And this is where it really gets weird. Or romantic. Depending on how you look at it. Shortly before I emailed her, she also had the feeling she should start her match.com account back up. And I’m so glad she did. I don’t know how our paths ever would have crossed otherwise.

I am so glad I saw this email come through a little while ago. It was from Gretchen and her story touched me on so many levels. This is why I love people. (Click to enlarge). Wow. And besides being selfless, isn't that just an incredible idea of something to start as a parent? Little amounts stack up big over time. And you never know when your child will have their own children and have that moment in their life when all they can do is cry. So powerful. Thank you for sharing Gretchen. Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing PS. Would love your comments today. What touched you most about this? And what do you think about the idea?

Sometimes, I am a bad dad. Like a really bad dad. Like last Monday morning when my alarm went off and I was able to start off my day with a big fat parenting fail. I’m calling it Dad Fail #14 for no other reason than that I’m sure that I’ve reported at least 13 other fails to you all since starting this blog. And I like to put numbers on things for some reason. Anyway, my alarm went off. I had stayed up working late into the night and was coming off of four hours of sleep mixed with three Tylenol PMs that hadn’t come even close to wearing off yet. The alarm woke Noah up as well and he immediately wandered into my bedroom and climbed into bed with me. I forced my eyes open (no easy task) and looked at the clock. We were due to leave for school in an hour. My eyes forced themselves closed again. I immediately started drifting back into sleep. “Dad, wake up!” Noah’s voice burst through my doze. “Don’t we have to get ready for school?” And then he let out the tiniest little cough. He might have just cleared his throat. I’m not sure. “Noah are you sick?” I asked as concerned as I could make myself. Yes. This was a perfect plan. “No, I’m not sick!” he said. Much too happily. “I heard you cough. That cough sounded pretty bad.” I couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. Yet they felt so right in the moment. “Let me feel your head,” I said. He pushed his forehead into my hand. “Dad, I’m not sick.” “I just want to be safe. Let me feel,” I said. His head wasn’t… cold. That was good enough for me! “Your head is hot, buddy. I’m worried about you. Maybe you should stay home from school just so we can be safe.” I told you I’m a bad dad sometimes. CONTINUED ON NEXT PAGE. Noah reached up and put his own hand to his head. “It doesn’t feel hot to me. Maybe you’re feeling a part that was in the sun, Dad.” Grrr. “No, you’re definitely heating up. I think maybe you should stay home. We don’t want to get any of the other kids sick.” Again he felt his head. “Yeah, I guess I am hot.” And then he forced a cough. “Yeah, I guess I do have a pretty bad cough, dad.” I told you I’m a bad dad sometimes. And at this point I was waking up enough to realize it. Grrr. “Noah,” I said. “I wasn’t being a good dad. I just wanted to sleep some more. Let’s get you ready for school.” I hated saying those words, but they were true. Noah forced another cough, this time massive. “Dad, no you’re right. I’m definitely sick.” Grrr. “Noah, I know I told you I thought you were sick, but I was just trying to make you think that so that I could go back to sleep. That wasn’t good of me.” He just looked at me as if to say, dad, make up your dang mind. “Come on bud, let’s get ready.” And he jumped off and ran straight into the kitchen for breakfast and forgot all about being sick for my sake. I grumbled off the bed and hobbled straight into the kitchen for some caffeine, silently irked at myself for my latest parenting fail. I told you I’m a bad dad sometimes. Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing PS. Have you ever done anything even half as bad? LOL. I dare you to share your tale.

Warning. Spoiler Alert for Life of Pi. Kind of. Not really. But kind of. My sister Amy and another friend were over recently and we decided to watch Life of Pi. I’d already seen it and thought it was a stunning movie. I had Noah that night and had put him down for bed ten minutes earlier, and as the movie started I realized both that I’d love for him to watch it, and he’d love to feel like a super big kid staying up late with us. He trotted out and took turns snuggling up against me on the floor and then with Amy up on the sofa. Basically, when things got scary, he’d come down by me. When things got calm he’d go up top where it was more comfortable. At one point, everyone but me was up on the couch screaming and yelling at me because I may or may not have woofed a really stink one. Haha. Oops. Anyway… Toward the end, when Pi and Richard Parker were about to die, and Pi had the tiger’s head on his lap, Noah squeaked from the couch behind me, “I’m tired.” I told him he could go to bed if he wanted. He insisted that he wanted to finish the movie. And after a few seconds, he climbed down by me, snuggled up next to me, and we watched the rest together. By the end he was asleep. In my arms. And I was loving it. I don’t think he’s fallen asleep in my arms for a good three years. Maybe more. Having your kid fall asleep in your arms really is one of the best parts of being a parent. I don’t know why. I think it’s because it takes true trust to fall asleep with someone else holding you. Don’t believe me? Try spooning some stranger, any stranger, beautiful, not beautiful, cool, creepy, but a stranger nonetheless. And just see if you can fall asleep. Guaranteed it ain’t gonna happen no matter how tired you are. And that’s all. It was just a good dad moment. Oh, and this is funny. Amy told me that the reason he suddenly announced that he was tired was because she had caught him wiping away tears during the near death part and she had reached up and brushed his hair with a sympathetic look. Knowing that he was busted, he tried to play it off and announced his sleepiness. So dang cute that kid is. Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing

I was recently dropping Noah off at his cousins’ house for a sleepover and I gave him the usual dad spiel about behaving, being awesome, going to bed when he’s told, yada yada yada. I ended by saying, “and when you’re here, who’s the boss?” “Aunt Tomi,” he said rolling his eyes because he already knew. “And you’re going to do everything she tells you to do, right?” I said. “Yes, Dad.” He was shifting his weight back and forth, chomping at the bit to head off and play with his cousins. Then Tomi Ann chimed in. “Anything I say?” Noah laughed. “YES!” “You promise?!” She asked with a goofy sneer. “YEEESSSS!!!!” “Okay, then hop up and down on one foot!” she said. Noah started laughing. “Hop up and down on one foot?” “You said you’d do anything I tell you to do while you’re here!” And while still giggling but not saying another word, Noah walked over to Tomi Ann and started jumping up and down on top of her foot. My sister and I looked at each other for the briefest moment trying to figure out what Noah was doing. And almost as quickly as we looked at each other in confusion, it dawned on both of us. He was hopping down on one foot. Her foot. And we both started laughing hysterically. Apparently it was the first time anyone had requested such an absurd thing from him. And he got mad kudos for doing everything his aunt told him to do. Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing PS. This one reminded me of when I told Noah to give me butterfly kisses the first time. So dang cute.

Thank God for sleep. No, like really. I’m usually overly agnostic, but right now I am sincerely thanking God for sleep. After all, if someone hadn’t stepped inside of my crazy mind while I was asleep and slapped it around a little, I’d be in big tro...