"Daddy, Wipe My Butt"

That's a direct quote from my three-year-old son, who actually shouted it from the bathroom while I was on the phone with a work colleague. No big deal though; everyone should know that's the life of a parent.

It's also a harsh reality check for those finding themselves at this stage of life. The life of an adult clearly changes with the birth of a child. Yeah, it's a little bit about selfishness - you can't be your center of attention anymore. There's someone else in much greater need of your time. And that's fine. Don't get me wrong, I love the hell out of my kids. But I sure as hell wouldn't mind being a little more selfish too. Never is this more evident than with each milestone your kid reaches.

All parents are pumped when their kids start to crawl and walk, but how long does it take before you're freaking sick of chasing them around everywhere? Is there anything that doesn't need to be fucking child-proofed?

And talking? Yes, we want to hear what the first words will be, but eventually you'd like them to shut the hell up too.

The most recent milestone for my #1 is the aforementioned potty training. It's great. It makes him seem more independent. It saves us money on diapers. But, son of a bitch, how many misfires do I have to clean up?

I'm left to only hope that Joey's matter-of-fact exclamations from the throne won't continue much longer. But such is the life I lead.

Whores in the Hood

After a prolonged absense from this iteration of my blogging life, I feel inspired to return to writing therapy. And, frankly, what's more inspiring than a story of whoring in my neighborhood?

Police in my pleasant Kansas City suburb recently cited two 30-somethings for prostituting themselves within about a mile of my house. Shit, I've unknowingly jogged past the scene of these crimes several days a week in recent months. Meanwhile, some of the Johns who were seeking alternative methods of exercise thought it was appropriate to park at a nearby church when visiting these unholy women. Interesting, not exactly what I'd call doing the lord's work.

All of this in Prairie Village, a place that sounds more like a town that would have a law against dancing, like in Footloose. A place that some really annoying people around here refer to as Perfect Village. But it all comes crashing down. As if housing depreciation, foreclosures and retail failures across the country aren't enough. Bring on the whores in Prairie Village.

What the hell?