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I like to call this series of photos "Raising Boys":
My youngest son has eczema, but he’s found a much better use for the tubs of Vaseline that we use to help treat it. He was actually mad at me after he did this because, well, because his train, patient, and rescue worker were stuck in tubs of Vaseline, and obviously it was my fault.
But don’t worry, my peeps, because I’ve got this raising boys thing totally covered. I don’t know if you know this, but from the time I was 14, my 4 siblings and I were raised by my dad—who just so happens to be a boy—who taught me many lessons that I can pass on to my own boys.
I know what you’re thinking (Mom): Fourteen years old? Why, that’s only 4 years away from being an adult. That’s not THAT long to be raised by just your father. How much could you have possibly learned?
A ton, my peeps. A TON.
For example, have you ever wondered which surfaces best amplify the sound of your farts? Well, I hadn’t either, actually, but my dad—he knew that someday I’d want to know. So he taught me.
The winner? Wood.
It’s a great party trick anytime you’re at an apartment, house, or a bar with wooden barstools. Granted, it won’t gain you any friends—in fact, it’ll strip you of any dignity or self-respect you might have had, along with any chance of making new friends. But what it will earn you is a gentleman caller—if you’re not choosy.
You’ll also keep all of your old friends, not because they’re loyal, but because there’s got to be a dumbass in every group to make the others look better. And guess what? After this party trick—you’ll be that dumbass.
LESSON LEARNED FROM DAD THAT I CAN PASS ALONG TO MY BOYS: If you see someone you’re interested in across the room, fart really hard on a wooden barstool. It won’t get you the girl, but you might pull the one next to her holding the French horn.
The next lesson wasn’t necessarily passed on to me by my dad, but it was an indirect result of him being a single father, so I’m going to pin it on him.
I was a late bloomer in many things, including the proper methods to use—methods that do not include farting on barstools—to pick up guys. (Thanks a lot, Dad…assclown.)
Anyhoo, by the time I got my period at age 14, Mom had already hightailed it the eff out of our house with a new boyfriend in a tiny white Rabbit. On a side note, I’m not even sure how they both fit into that thing, what with his humongous girth and that plastic Christmas tree he insisted on hauling from one-bedroom apartment to one-bedroom apartment. (No Christmas Tree Left Behind, bitches.) But they managed.
Please don’t mistake that last paragraph for bitterness, because I’m totally not bitter. Mom actually took one for the team by hooking up with her new mister and getting the eff out of town for a little while. At least she didn’t line the five of us kids up to smack our faces in one fell swoop, which is a dream she told me about later that she figured signaled the beginnings of a mental breakdown if she didn't act fast enough. Is that not hilarious? I mean, in a 20-years-later kind of way.
But seriously, I was mad for about five minutes (C’mon, I could have five minutes, right? He carried around a Christmas tree in a Rabbit!), but my whole family has a great relationship now. In fact, we’re pretty sure Mom and Dad—who have been divorced since the Rabbit incident almost 22 years ago—still do it on birthdays and most major holidays. Of course, that hasn’t been proven, thank the Good Lord in Heaven for the sweet blessings He pours upon us from above…because we certainly don’t need that image boring a hole in our brains, now do we?
Anyway, by the time I got my periodista (which is reporter in Spanish, but not on this blog), I was like 32 (or 14) and Dad was at work. I had to turn to my older sister, who was a total snatch, for help.
I remember it well: With a huge smirk as she explained the problem over the phone to her boyfriend who also went to our high school, had a huge mouth, and was on the football team (See?? Snatch!), she threw me a dishrag, a rubber band, and a pair of flowered granny panties and told me to figure it out.
I wore rag diapers until I was 23 years old and my roommate caught me stealing all of the dishrags from the kitchen drawer and made me ‘fess up. Sometimes God just sends angels your way to make everything alright.
My angel? She was a boisterous redhead named Christy who showed me the beauty of a tampon.
LESSON LEARNED SORT OF FROM MY DAD THAT I CAN PASS ALONG TO MY BOYS: Be happy you don’t have an older sister or a period. They’re awful.
I do believe, my peeps, that I’m all set.