The Greatest Show on Earth?

At 4:57pm yesterday I got a text from my wife exclaiming, "We're going to the circus tonight!"

I didn't know how to react. Our house itself can be somewhat like a circus considering the behavior of our children and the noise level that accompanies it. That's no indictment of my kids either; I know that's just how kids are. But what the hell was my wife talking about? If the circus were being used as a metaphor for our house and our life, then we technically wouldn't be going anywhere. I knew that there was a three-year-old's birthday party coming up and that the kid's mom was promoting it with a circus theme. But I doubted that it would be on a Thursday night.

Could there really be a circus in town and, if so, could we really be going?

Yes and yes.

As exhausted and generally crappy as I'd felt all week up until that point, I didn't greet this news with overwhelming enthusiasm. We were headed to what was sure to be a crowded, load and flamboyant event, packed with children who were sure to be armed with boundless energy and overpriced and annoying souvenir toys. But in the spirit of being a good father and husband, I certainly wasn't going to turn my back on this. And it helped that we'd been hooked up with free tickets for the whole family.

So we were off to the so-called "Greatest Show on Earth." How bad could it be? "The Greatest Show on Turf" was pretty entertaining about ten years ago, with the likes of Kurt Warner, Marshall Faulk and Isaac Bruce leading a high-powered St. Louis Rams attack. Wait a minute, though, I hated that fucking team.

The first hurdle to clear, after simply trying to get the kids appropriately prepared and packed into the car for our outing, was parking. That's always an adventure when attending a large event such as this one, especially one when it's being held at a downtown arena. And, of course, it can be pricey. So imagine my surprise when I pulled into a multi-level garage just three blocks from the Sprint Center and was asked to only pay $2. The logical conclusion is that the folks at Standard Parking feel sorry for those headed to the circus. The attendant actually asked me where we were going before telling me how much I owed. What if I'd responded that I was meeting friends at one of the bars at the Power & Light District, probably the most popular social scene in the city? Would that have cost me $10? That's what I was prepared to pay last night. I'm pretty sure that's what it cost to park in the same garage for the two other events I'd attended at the Sprint Center, to wholly different events -- a Coldplay concert and a college basketball game -- but the same kind of large-scale entertainment. But, trust me, I wasn't about to argue.

It's too bad, though, that this apparent event-based pricing didn't carry over into the arena. Beer still cost $6.00 and $7.50, and I actually paid $7.00 for a big box of popcorn. Of course, I was the asshole for that in the eyes of my children because they had to share the box. Sorry, fellas, I'm not dropping $14 for something I could make at home for mere cents. Consider yourselves lucky for even pulling the one.

The circus itself, predictably, was a fucking circus: elephants, tigers and lots of man-on-man homoerotic acrobatics. I actually don't remember ever having attended a circus before, so I didn't know exactly what to expect as far as its format. It ended up playing out much like a musical. It was a story, albeit a very lame one (the ringmaster trying to get his hat back from a retardly annoying clown), with daring acts and song and dance peppered throughout. Honestly, I did find parts of it somewhat interesting. I think it's kind of cool that people can get elephants and tigers to stand up on their back legs and wave their front legs like begging dogs. Having seven motorcyclists speeding simultaneously through a steel globe was pretty freaking insane, and I'm still amazed that I didn't witness multiple fatalities during that display.

But the kids made it all worth it. Each one of them clearly enjoyed the circus a great deal, and that includes 21-month-old Lukas, who spent must of the time staring in wide-eyed wonderment. Plus, I made it out without having to buy souvenirs. So even with the ridiculous price tag of the popcorn, the whole event cost us just $9.00. If you want to get really specific, you can add another $2.31 for gas. That's what a gallon costs around here these days, and the roundtrip (24 miles is my guess, since that's what my back-and-forth to work is each day) was probably good to burn exactly that.

The Greatest Show on Earth? I'd say not. But for $11.31 for a family of five, it worked out pretty damn well.

Is Cursing Really My Legacy?

One day, some 20 years after our tenure as childhood neighbors had ended, my old friend Bob described me as having the foulest mouth at the earliest age of anyone he’d ever known. That’s the kind of thing that I think probably makes most people just shake their heads. And I can live with that.

Now, at the age of 32, any of my friends or family could assure you that my vocabulary remains quite liberal. And, as a father, I’ve found this isn’t necessarily a commendable achievement.

I’ve shared some stories at work about my three-year-old son’s impressive understanding of profanity – not only does he use the words, but he does so in the appropriate context. That prompts occasional questions like the one I received today: “Have your kids cussed anymore lately?”

Usually the questions aren’t so direct. They’re more like: “Do you have any funny Joey stories?” But today’s inquiry was right to the point, and it’s follow-up was what alarmed me.

“That is your legacy.”

Really? I know I may not ever be Father of the Year material, but can we already conclude that my fatherly legacy is exposing my children to four-letter words? I’d like to think I can set my sights a little higher.

I coach sports, I help with puzzles, I read books, and I even sing some songs. I like to think I do a lot of the responsible and positive day-to-day dad duties. Do my profane tendencies truly cast a shadow over all of that?

One thing that’s fairly certain is that I’m not likely to change. It’s just the way I am. With work, family, sports, everything, I’m a very high-stress guy. There are plenty of rants and outbursts that clearly don’t make me the greatest of influences on everyone. And I can live with that.

But my kids? I’d like to think I have enough of the right qualities to outweigh some bad words. This fatherhood shit gets more tricky everyday.

Is Poop Really Getting in the Way? ... and Other Weekend Issues

I don't know if my weekend should be considered typical or atypical (does it have to be one or the other?), but there were a few items of note. I would be an irresponsible blogger if I didn't share them.

"Your poop is getting in the way of family time." I don't really like going to the park. For a man with a couple of kids, that can be a problem. But my reason for abandoning my family at Porter Park Friday night was legitimate: I HAD to go to the bathroom, and I wasn't using a portable jail cell of a 'toilet' in order to relieve myself. Luckily we'd gone to the park right after running a couple of errands, so we were only about a mile from home and I had the use of a car at my disposal. (Frankly, I might have run that mile if I didn't have the car.) Anyway, I was only gone for about ten minutes. Harmless relief, right? Of course not. During my short round-trip, my 18-month-old son took a header into a rocking dinosaur, bloodying his lip and chipping a tooth. Come on, what are the freaking odds? Could I have prevented it? Probably not, but my turds may always be tied to that little chipped tooth.

Miley Cyrus, you tricky little broad. I had a great idea for Saturday morning. I was ready to get online just before 10:00am to position myself for a couple of tickets to the Miley Cyrus concert later this year at Kansas City's Sprint Center. Of course, I wasn't really positioning myself to experience this show, and I wasn't even doing so for the benefit of my eight-year-old stepson, who regrettably glues himself to Hannah Montana and other Disney Channel fluff as if it were a Martin Scorcese marathon. No, I was ready to buy and resell these golden tickets and pocket the extra cash. Well, my plan was quickly foiled by this "Official Paperless Ticket Tour."

The Miley Cyrus tour is a paperless ticketed tour. You will not receive a physical ticket for entry and are required to bring the credit card used to buy your tickets and a government-issued ID to the venue, where your credit card will be swiped to gain you and your party access to the event. If you do not have your credit card and government-issued ID in hand at the event, you will not gain access to the event.

Translation: If you buy the tickets, you better be the one who shows up at the gate. Fuckin' bastards.

I didn't go to Home Depot for the chocolate. I'm going to make this one really quick: Whoever the hell came up with the idea of putting candy in the checkout aisles at places like Home Depot is a genius. Christ, I can't go pick up a couple of bags of mulch and sand without ending up with a Kit Kat too?! I tried to escape without it, but you should have heard the fucking temper tantrum. Yet another joy of parenthood.

And it's Monday again. Cheers.

A Few Random Thoughts After Being Pissed on by Wii Fit

No disrespect to that software geniuses who invented the Nintendo Wii or Wii Fit, in particular; however, my Wii Fit experience is off to a very inauspicious start.

The box was just cracked open today, one day after my wife received Wii Fit as a Mothers' Day gift from my mom. Today's task was simply to get started, setting up profiles for my wife and myself. Now I'm not at all the one who's vigilant about getting started on this. Within the last year, I've dropped almost 20 pounds to get down to my desired Super Welterweight/Middleweight frame in the low 150s. Standing a mere 5'6", I tend to think I do okay for myself. Apparently, Wii Fit doesn't agree.

After simply standing on this board for a few seconds and performing a couple of balancing tests, I was told my fitness level was ideal for a 36-year-old. The fucking audacity. No offense to those of age 36, but that's four years older than I am. I'll be damned to stand around and have someone - even a damn machine - tell me I'm not in good shape for according to my years.

I do some strength and resistance training several days a week, and I probably jog a total of 10-15 miles peer week. Is that good for nothing?

Pricks.

The glory in being wrong. So I was only 30 points off in my prediction yesterday of Game 4 of the NBA Western Conference semifinals. Rather than the 18-point Lakers' victory that I projected, it was the Rockets who cruised to a 12-point win (and it wasn't nearly that close). But I have no problem being so far off on this one. First of all, who didn't think the Lakers would win? Secondly, who really wouldn't want this series to stretch as long as possible. I find it ridiculous to think that Houston can win another game in L.A., but I can keep my fingers crossed that Artest will be ready to pop one of the Lakers into the first row at some point in the next few days.

Confession: I actually want the Lakers to win. Those who know me well can tell you that two of my least favorite things in life are hype and populism. (Guess who I didn't vote for in the Presidential Election last November?) That's why it's highly improbable to think that I'd actually be pulling for the much-desired Lakers-Cavs matchup in the NBA Finals. I'm sorry, though, I just think it's something I need to see. The Lakers are the best team in the West, the Cavs are the best in the East; Kobe's the best player in the West, LeBron is the best player in the East. Let's get this done. It's good for the league, good for basketball in general, good for TV, and it's good enough for me. Just this once, I'm buying the hype and I'm voting with the masses.

My wife is right about this kid shit. My wife runs a daycare out of our home, at its peak with as many as eight children under our small roof. This is personally significant to me in many ways, but perhaps none moreso than on days like today, when I stay home from work. My wonderful 16-month-old son, Lukas, rolled over this morning with a temperature of 103. Rather than closing the daycare, inconveniencing the other parents and forcing my wife to burn one of her contracted sick days, I volunteered to stay home and quarantine myself with the sick child. That decision was made over 12 hours ago, and I'm officially ready to get out of the fucking house. My only fresh air salvation today has been a 10-minute walk with my dog, and I'm just about ready for a 10-hour trip to my favorite watering hole.

She's right, this stuff isn't easy. Much respect.

"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.