Archive for the ‘funny children’ Category

Good Grief #379

Today was flu shot day for the kids.

They both have kind of an issue about getting shots so I called upon Daddy Prophylactic Maneuver #379, the threat of Dire Consequences should any bullsh*t be shoveled in the doctor’s office.  Driving down the road I used that captive audience forum so favored by fathers everywhere.

Kids, listen up… If I hear even one little bit of hassle in the doctor’s office when it comes time for your flu shot, I will immediately negate any and all chore money you have stored up over the last week.  I will flat-out take it away and there will be zero chance to earn it back.  The brief sting of a shot is far far easier than a full bout of the flu.  Even if you don’t mind getting the flu, your mom and I aren’t interested in the notion of taking care of you for a week for something that can be prevented.


We got into the doctor’s office and Hacker Boy was a compliant and helpful boy and even relaxed perfectly.  Didn’t even grimace over it.

Lemurita on the other hand, dove for the corner of the room saying “I don’t want your shot.  You can’t make me.  I won’t do it.”

I took the stern tack again. “Lemurita, you are going to get this shot.  It is for your own good.  Hacker Boy didn’t feel a thing.  It’s not that bad.  You’re still going to get it.  Fight this and you will lose your $6.00 chore money and you will still get that shot.  We can do this the hard way or we can do this the easy way, it is going to happen either way, so the amount of pain and suffering is up to you.”

She agreed to come over and sit on my lap but then changed her mind immediately after sitting down.  Instantly I had my arms around her to prevent her gazelle-like flight.

Then it got pretty awful bad.


And punctuating her every word was violent thrashing and whipping of her head.  The nurse left for a bit for us to get her calmed down and her arm shirt-free.  We had to forcibly get her arm out of her shirt.  By now, I had each of her wrists, right wrist in my left hand, left wrist in my right hand, both legs around her, and my head was up against the back of her neck so she could not pop my teeth or nose with the head-whips.

I said reasonably quietly and calmly, “You already lost your $6.00 but you’re still getting this shot.”

She started bucking even harder – full-body undulations.  The force of her movements moved me and the chair.


“Relax or the shot will actually hurt, and yes, you are still getting it.  No your arm isn’t broken.  Now just relax.”  I manacled her wrists and pulled her arms tight against her sides to minimize the flailing.

In went the needle with a quick jab.

Shot done.

Bit more kicking and screaming and hollering went on and then stopped as she realized that struggling after the shot just seemed silly.

We walked out to the car.  I told her that I wasn’t embarrassed by her behavior but that she probably should be.

“I don’t care,” she said.

“Okay.  I’m okay with that.”

We rode home in utter silence.  Not a word was spoken.  I had traction control turned off

As we pulled into the driveway she said

And Dad, I don’t feel any grief about the $6.00.

There is no doubt that it was the equivalent of a sneer and two extended middle fingers.

I laughed so hard I think I pissed her off a bit.

Cruel Wife looked at me and said “If you had even a tiny bit of doubt that she’s your daughter, it should no longer exist.  She is your girl.”

Apparently that is a classic trait of my personality, to tell someone to f*ck right off even if it destroys me in the process of doing it.  One time I was fired and re-hired in the space of ten minutes.  I was in the right but my handling of it could have been better.

I’m so proud of Lemurita’s wording when she’s pissed off.  She is going to be such a force to be reckoned with.

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Update:  Coworker Black Lab on Meth got this at a local fair.   Here it is shown in my office about ready to take a crap on my desk.  A few nuts, bolts, and washers per crapload, which no one is going to notice amongst all the nuts, bolts, and washers on my desk already.


Frankenboy as I may have mentioned before is a pretty high-end (functioning) autistic kid.  He has his mannerisms, some of which drives one nuts, some which are kind of cute, and some that leave you scratching your head.

But in other ways, he’s Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes.

I had a less-than-zero sleep last night and by 7:45am I was hearing the sounds of Cruel Wife rushing to get out the door.  I could hear her brushing hair, doing the makeup, and the pfffft of a quick shot of hair spray.

Still 3/4ths asleep I noted it and resolved to lay back down until when my alarms were set, at 7:59am and 8:03am (I have this thing about wanting prime numbers, no repeat numbers, and not liking increments of five in my alarm clock settings).

Some time later, I smelled hair spray – very strongly.  I threw the covers over my head while thinking “Jeez that is ridiculous”.  A minute later I threw the covers off my head to get some fresh air and gagged at the smell which was an order of magnitude worse.   Covers went back over my head and I said to myself “Damn, CW, that’s over the top.  Must be a bad hair day to rival Bill Clinton’s”.

A few minutes later I was looking for fresh air and it was just as bad – hair spray fumes were making stratified layers of haze across the room.  I closed my eyes and ducked under the covers again, resolving to get some more shut-eye.

The alarm clock went off.  I smacked it with my foot and it turned off the alarm.  I closed my eyes again and almost immediately the thing went off again, this time to a radio station, which told me that it was the second alarm.  I stomped on it with my foot and it, too, turned off.

At least the hair spray smell was abating a bit.  I went back under the covers and resolved to get up in a few minutes.

Fast-forward 37 minutes – I looked at the clock and realized I was late.  I leapt out of bed, got on my fuzzy robe, and realized that the sitter had already arrived and was on the couch reading her paper as I dashed to shower.  Did all the appropriate get-ready-for-work things, picked up all my pocket stuff (change, keys, smartphone), and realized I had no hair spray.  So I ran to the other bathroom where CW keeps hers and… she was out.  The can was gone and there was only some kiwi-scented (flavored?) gel stuff, which I was not going to use.

On the way to work I called her and said “So, you ran out of hairspray this morning, huh?”

“No, I have been running low but I still had a decent amount.”

And it dawned on both of us at the same time that Frankenboy must have imitated Dear Old Mom and hosed himself with spray to the point of exhausting every last bit of propellant and toxic hair spray glue that was left in the can.   Which means that everything in the house will be tacky for a while and that the cats may hork up next week’s hairballs tonight because of the aerosolized glue.

On the way out, Frankenboy said “I want to play on the Playstation.”  I told him “No, I have taken it away for a week, remember?”

He ran over and beat up the couch.   I told him that I understood that he was angry and that was ok, but he still doesn’t get the Playstation.   He looked at me and then beat up the couch again.   We repeated that once more and I told him to go to his room and be angry there.

He ignored me until I hit a count of “two” and then did it, and slammed his door.   Then I heard another door slam.  Then a third.

I thought “But their room only has two doors…?”


He was making his point to keep slamming the door until I fully understood That He Was Angry.

I went in and told him he was making the perfect case for losing the Playstation for another week or two.  That resulted in a major pouting session but by then I really had to go to work.

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