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Mister Rogers’ Mother Was Right

Say what you will about Mister Rogers. His speech and mannerisms may stop being cool after you hit puberty, but the lessons he taught are timeless and ageless.

My friend Olivia Gatti shared this quote from Mr. Rogers on Facebook awhile back:

When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers–so many caring people in this world.

The man was so right.

I suspect Olivia had the earthquake and tsunamis in Japan on her mind when she decided to share, and it certainly fits. There’s been so much tragedy in the last decade, from 9-11 to the tsunamis of late 2004 to this latest event, and for many children — especially those with emotional disorders — it can be enough to terrorize to the core, no matter how far away they are from the given disaster.

I used to have an acute fear of current events that started early in childhood and lasted almost into my mid-30s.

As I’ve written before, fear and anxiety were byproducts of my particular brand of OCD, just like my addictions were a byproduct.

The fear meant a lot of things. Working myself into a stupor over the safety of my wife and children. An obsession with cleanliness, which was interesting since depression always meant my personal hygiene took a dive. It also meant a fear of world events. When that Nostradamus movie “The Man Who Saw Tomorrow” came out on HBO in the early 1980s, I was terrified by the “future” scenes.

Later, when Iraq invaded Kuwait, I thought the scene from above was playing out and it left me in a huge depression, one where I stayed in my basement with the lights off.

Similar emotions took hold on Sept. 11, 2001. Of course, those emotions took hold on everyone that day.

It fed a lot of my addictive behavior in adulthood and blackened parts of my childhood that might have otherwise been happy — even with the bad things that happened. Bad things happen to everyone. That’s life. But some people can maintain a certain level of happiness despite it.

Mr. Rogers learned a powerful lesson from his mother. I wish I had it in my head to focus on the helpers growing up. In hindsight, they were always there:

–The doctors and nurses who saved me from brutal bouts of Crohn’s Disease.

–The therapists who guided me through a diagnosis of OCD and showed me how to manage it.

–My family, especially my wife, and also my father and my mother, who tried to do their best for me. The help Erin has been to me is way too big to be measured here.

–My friends, who have always helped me make sense of things, made me laugh and done all the other things a person needs to get through the day.

–Many of the people in my faith community, who showed me how to accept God’s Grace, even if I still suck at returning the favor.

With the bigger events like what happened in Japan, it’s so easy to see only the calamity, death and sadness. It’s easy to get fixated on whether such a thing could happen where we live.

But when you look at it the way Mr. Roger’s mother suggested, it becomes a different picture altogether. The bad stuff is still there, but you also see that no matter what happens, there will always be enough kind souls to help the rest of us through to the other side.

When you can see the good in people even during the darkest of hours, it restores your faith in humanity.

I’m grateful for the reminder.

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You of All People …

Recent weeks have pounded home the point that I’m seriously lacking in patience. With Duncan’s issues. With Erin’s workload. And more.

Mood music:

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gjto02iDNZA&fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0]

Four words repeatedly ring in my head: “You of all people.”

I of all people should be patient with Duncan. I was a problem child on a much deeper, darker magnitude than him. He’s a good boy. I should be a lot calmer when he has his meltdowns and gets uncooperative. Because I’ve been in his shoes. And yet I’m not patient with him at all.

Erin put up with a lot of grief when I was slowly melting down and needed to find treatment. She has stuck by me through the long, brutal years of therapy, religious conversion, addictive behavior and now she’s having to deal with me at the other extreme — throwing myself into insane levels of activity simply because I can now.

Yet I get impatient over her workload. Starting a freelance business from nothing is hard and sometimes crushing. I’m proud of what she’s accomplished. But the business is like a newborn child, in constant need of attention. Sometimes — more than sometimes, actually — I get jealous of the newborn.

I forget that at one point everything I did revolved around the needs of my job. She stuck it out through all the 12-hour night shifts that left me more than useless during the day. And that was with a toddler and newborn in the house.

She was patient as wave after wave of depression washed away my libido and made me a dark, brooding presence you had to walk past very carefully.

For the most part, I’ve since gotten my shit together, and now it’s time to be patient for them.

But I’m failing to do so. A lot.

You of all people.

I lost my temper with Duncan more than once this past week. We don’t hit our kids, but when we yell, we really yell. When I do, I feel terrible afterward, like the ultimate failure of a father.

When Erin has to focus in on her work or she’s too tired at the end of a long day for anything other than TV, I start to think like an ass (she doesn’t want to be with me. She no longer finds me attractive, etc.). I forget that she stuck with me for years as I failed to meet her needs. And when that point is driven home to me, I feel like the ultimate failure of a husband.

I know I’m not a failure on either of these counts, but when you let anger and uncertainty take over, you start thinking in absolutes. That’s always a bad idea.

So patience is clearly something I need to work on.

Maybe it’s no accident that my therapist asked me when I’ll start doing yoga during my appointment yesterday. I keep telling him I have no patience for yoga.

I’m starting to see the absurdity of my response, even though — truth be told — as I write this I still have no interest in yoga.

However I get there, massive amounts of patience will be required.

I should know how to muster the patience. 

You of all people.

But for whatever reason, I’m not there yet.

But after recent events, finding it has become a big priority.

Wish me luck.

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Coffee With My Therapist, Part 2

I paid another visit to my therapist this morning, and the discussion was a lot more productive than last week’s get-together. Last week wasn’t his fault. I went in there with a migraine.

Mood music:

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Lz6qLQ4xSM&fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0]

We’re continuing to work on my struggle to balance the urge to do everything with the need to slow it down. We’re working on my need for more patience as Erin and I help Duncan with his issues. We covered all the bases.

I must be feeling better than last week, because I walked in with a large cup of coffee. He wants me off the coffee and I know it. I drink it during our meetings partly to needle him and mostly because an hour sitting on a couch is a good time to sip some caffeine.

He asked me — for the thousandth time — when I’m going to start doing yoga.

“Never,” I said. “I have absolutely no patience for yoga.”

“Just like you didn’t have the patience to stop binge eating, right?” he shot back with a grin.

It’s all good.

I bring all this up as a reminder to those who fear therapy that there’s nothing to worry about.

I don’t think people should be embarrassed about seeing a therapist. And yet people are embarrassed, like they’re being treated for the clap after a reckless night in a whorehouse. It’s the kind of shame that does you no good. Take it from a guy who has been there.

It’s a funny thing when I talk to people suffering from depression, addictionand other troubles of the mind. Folks seem more comfortable about the idea of pills than in seeing a therapist. After all, they’re just crazy “shrinks” in white coats  obsessed with how your childhood nightmares compromised your adult sex life, right?

I’ve been to many therapists in my life. I was sent to one at Children’s Hospital in Boston as a kid to talk through the emotions of being sick with Chron’s Disease all the time. That same therapist also tried to help me and my siblings process the bitter aftermath of our parents’ divorce in 1980.

As a teenager, I went to another therapist to discuss my brother’s death and my difficulty in getting along with my stepmother (a wonderful, wonderful woman who I love dearly, by the way. But as a kid I didn’t get along with her).

That guy was a piece of work. He had a thick French accent and wanted to know if I found my stepmother attractive. From the moment he asked that question, I was done with him, and spent the rest of the appointment being belligerent.

That put me off going to a therapist for a long time. I started going to one again in 2004, when I found I could no longer function in society without untangling the barbed wire in my head. But I hesitated for a couple years before pressing on.

The therapist I started going to specialized in dealing with disturbed children and teenagers. That was perfect, because in a lot of ways I was still a troubled kid.

She never told me what to do, never told me how I’m supposed to interpret my disorder against my past. She asked a lot of questions and had me do the work of sorting it out. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what a good therapist does. They ask questions to get your brain churning, dredging up experiences that sat at the back of the mind like mud on the ocean floor. That’s how you begin to deal with how you got to the point of dysfunction.

She moved to Florida a year in and I started going to a fellow who worked from his house. I would explain my binge eating habits to him, specifically how I would down $30 worth of McDonald’s between work and home.

“You should stock your car with healthy foods like fruit, so if you’re hungry you can eat those things instead,” he told me.

That was the end of that. He didn’t get it. When an addict craves the junk, the healthy food around you doesn’t stand a chance. The compulsion is specifically toward eating the junk. He should have understood. He didn’t. Game over, dumb ass.

The therapist I see now is a God-send. He was the first therapist to help me understand the science behind mental illness and the way an inbalance in brain chemistry can mess with your thought traffic. He also provided me with quite an education on how anti-depressants work. Yes, friends, there’s a science to it. Certain drugs are designed to shore up the brain chemicals that, when depleted, lead to bi-polar behavior. Other meds are specifically geared toward anxiety control. In my case, I needed the drug that best addressed obsessive-compulsive behavior. For me, that meant Prozac. 

But I don’t necessarily heed his every suggestion. Take the yoga and coffee, for example.

He makes recommendations but I decide what I’m going to do.

Fortunately for me, I’ve gotten smart enough to take most of his advice.

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Sympathy for the Unsympathetic

I tend to get a lot of mail from people who read this blog, particularly the stuff about the rougher parts of my life. God Bless ’em, because they’re good people who want to buck me up. But I think they misunderstand where I’m coming from sometimes.

Mood music:

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yvJGQ_piwI0&fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0]

There are days when my posts cross over to darker territory, especially when a wave of depression or OCD moment hits. I also do a lot of soul searching here, which is part of what I started this for. Some see those posts and tell me I’m way too hard on myself.

When too much of this happens, I need to come on here and tell you why you don’t need to worry about me or express sympathy. This time, I got a nice, shiny five-point manifesto to make my point:

1.) If I write about something bad that happened to me or something I’m feeling bad about, it’s never, ever a cry for pity. I approach my experiences from the point of view that EVERYONE has bad stuff happen to them and that EVERYONE screws up. I’m nobody special. But many times I need to expose my raw feelings to make a point. That’s what writers do.

2.) This blog is all about me making an example of myself. The way I see it, I’ve learned a lot of lessons and developed a lot of coping skills every time I’ve failed. If I don’t admit to my own failings to show where I used to be and where I’m going, the reader won’t walk away with anything useful.

3.) When sharing a bad mood or experience, the goal is to tell others they’re not alone. A lot of people with depression and addiction suffer in silence, thinking they’re different from everyone else in a bad way. The more people come clean about their own struggles, the more those sufferers can see that they’re not so hopeless and strange after all. In other words, some of the stuff readers try to buck me up over are based on my attempts to buck other people up.

4.) Never think for a moment that I don’t love who I am and what I have. It’s easy to read the darker posts and see a guy who loathes himself and curses his lot in life. But these posts aren’t meant to be that way. I still have my struggles and always need to be better than I am, but I also appreciate who I am, where I’ve been and what I’ve learned. And I know when I look at my wife and children that I’m THE luckiest guy on the planet.

5.) Writing all this stuff down is excellent therapy for me, too. Some people may be taken aback by some of the stuff I come clean about here. But in doing so I clear my own mind of the obsessive thinking that can hold me back. Then I can move on to the next thing. That doesn’t mean I don’t get locked into OCD moments, but spilling it here makes things better. 

So you see, my friends, there’s no need for sympathy. I’m doing just fine.

But I am grateful for your kindness and good intentions.

Now, as MC5 once sang, “Kick out the jams!”

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Let He Who Is Without Sin Stone Charlie Sheen

As a society, we love to tear other people down. When someone else fails, it somehow makes us feel better about the mess our own lives have become. I know, because I do it all the time. But in the case of Charlie Sheen and his public meltdown, I just can’t do it.

Mood music:

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hqd2FJF8-h8&fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0]

Sheen’s interview with ABC News’ Andrea Canning is painful to watch. His eyes are sunken into the back of his head. His speech is violent. He shifts around on the edge of his seat. Is he drunk or high right now? I have no idea. But he’s clearly in a backslide, and people are loving it.

My problem with this is that we all break from time to time. We do foolish things all the time, we lie about it and try hard to pretend we’re so much stronger. The difference is that Sheen is a famous actor. When he melts down, the world gets to watch. Most of us do our breaking in private.

Not that I’m completely sympathetic to Sheen. He is choosing to come apart on camera. I guess when you’re an actor, you can’t help it. I also understand that we love a tale of redemption. If he comes out the other end intact, the public will probably put this aside and watch his work again. I feel the same way about Mel Gibson. Most people hate him these days because he said some pretty hateful things in a drunken rage caught on tape. Did his rage capture his true heart? I’m not so sure.

When you’re messed up and angry, it doesn’t take much to send you into a tear about other ethnicities, religions, etc. Some people do it thinking they’re just being funny. We all think we’re hilarious when we’re drunk, don’t we?

A few things I know about myself: I don’t care if someone is gay, religious or atheist, black or yellow, thin or fat. I just want everyone to get along, which I realize is a pipe dream in itself.

All that said, I’ve said some pretty rotten things in my day. Back around 1992 I used the N-word a lot. I had a lot of anger in me and I was also listening to Ice-T’s Body Count album a lot. If he could use that word as a black man, surely it was acceptable to toss around like any other bad word. I’m from Revere, Mass., and I know full well how to drop a few hundred F-bombs.

I’ve made and laughed at gay jokes even though several of the people I love are gay.

But there was never a TV camera or audio recorder nearby to capture it.

Here’s something else I know about myself: When I’ve said some of the rotten things I’ve said, I was always under a sinister influence: anger, addiction, depression, despair, loneliness.

Even in recovery, I fail on this score.

Thing is, I think most of us do. We probably all do, but I try not to frame things in absolutes. Surely there are a few people out there who are pure as the freshly fallen snow.

If these people do exist, I hope a camera will be there to record it, if only to balance the scales against the Hollywood meltdowns and our own personal fuck-up festivals. 

We all sin and we all need to do better.

We all get a shot at forgiveness and redemption.

That’s what I believe.

I wish Charlie Sheen nothing but the best.

I hope he can get it together, because I really do like his work.

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We Need Routines, Part 2

Here’s one reason February has been such a bitch: My routine has been so far off the rails that it has been hard to keep my perspective. It hurts the whole family-work dynamic. For a person in recovery, routines are beyond huge.

Mood music:

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6YzKLRM-pr4&fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0]

Being the restless, boredom-shunning soul that I am, I always look forward to the next trip. I always miss my wife and children during these outings, but it’s also good to get out of the normal environment from time to time. It tests you and can even rejuvenate. I’ve also learned that recovery is portable. You can take your program just about anywhere. I’ve also learned that God is with me wherever I go, and that makes it much easier to approach life in a fearless way.

Here’s the problem: Do too much of this sort of thing and you hurt yourself and those around you. That’s exactly what I did in late January and the first half of February. I went to Washington and San Francisco within a two week period and came home violently ill. Served me right, but my family didn’t deserve having to carry on while I was passed out on the couch.

I thought I had the groove of a traveling man down pat, but I was being stupid.

Last week was a lost week of sorts. I was home a lot with my family, but mentally I was pretty vacant.

But it’s a new week. I’m in the office doing routine things. This afternoon I’ll go home and do more routine things. And I’ll be happy doing it.

I started on the path back to sanity yesterday by going to Mass. Driving there in a snowstorm wasn’t sane, mind you. But by the time Mass was over I felt so happy to be back. When you travel and focus on work too much, God gets the shaft, too.

That point was driven home to me when I did another routine thing last night and went to a 12-Step study meeting.

The main topic was fear and the things addicts do because of it. People discussed how their fears — over being accepted, over an abusive, drunken spouse, over work — made them drink, drug and binge eat. I sat there silent because I’m still too early in the Big Book-study process to share at these meetings, but I had a different, stranger take on fear than the rest of the room. I’ve lived in their brand of fear, to be sure.

My problem of late has more to do with the collateral damage caused when you lose the fear that held you back. You get a big lust for life, which may sound all well and good until you realize it’s just another extreme way of living.

Extremes are like absolutes: Both have caution signs plastered all over them. You go too far in one direction and neglect other, important parts of your existence.

I’ve always been a man of extremes. I’m either badly depressed like I was last week, shut off from the rest of the world, seeing only the calamities, or I’m ON — working, playing and grabbing on to every activity I only think I can handle at the time.

The middle speed in my engine rarely works right. It’s either all or nothing, and that’s a problem that may well plague me for the rest of my life.

But I’m not giving up without a fight.

This much I know: I’m always closest to the middle gear when I follow a rigid routine. That includes three weighed-out meals sans flour and sugar, an early bedtime because I rise early, at least two 12-Step meetings a week, regular check-ins with my sponsor, regular visits to the therapist, and daily prayer. It should also include time set aside after work to catch up with my wife and kids.

This is the stuff I need to work on, and I don’t tell you all this in a search for sympathy. We all have issues to work on every day. We all have our good days and bad days. I’m nothing special. I just happen to have a blog where I can process this stuff aloud. 

The blog has become another important part of my routine.

But my use of it can become unbalanced, too.

This is just one of the crosses I carry.

But 10 of my crosses are absolutely nothing compared the Cross Jesus carried. I just forget from time to time.

Some of you think that kind of talk is nonsense.

Nobody’s perfect.

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When Honesty Is A Lie

I’ve figured out another reason for my sour mood in recent days, and now is as good a time as any to get it off my chest.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/6YzKLRM-pr4

A lot of people have been coming up to me here in San Francisco praising me for being “so honest, open and courageous” in this blog. It was a similar thing when I was in Washington D.C. for ShmooCon a couple weeks ago.

I appreciate those feelings. I really do. But when I look in the mirror lately, those words don’t ring true.

Maybe I’m being too self-critical, maybe not.

But the feeling is there. And it stings.

Here’s the thing: I do open up about a lot of things on here. That’s why I do this thing. If one person can open up about himself, I figure, others will be less afraid to be honest with themselves and they’ll be happier for it.

But don’t think for a second that I tell you everything.

I still have trouble sometimes being honest with myself and other people. It’s not that I hide anything particularly insidious. It’s the more typical things:

If I run into a PR person who wants to pitch me something I’m not interested in, I often lack the honesty to tell them I’m not interested. That strings them along and gives them false hope, and it’s not fair to them.

When I talk to people about how I’ve cleaned up from an addiction, I’m not so revealing about the other addictions I still let control me (computer gadgetry, for example). Sure, I wrote about that and just linked to it. But I think I’m far more hooked on technology in ways that make life less manageable than I initially let on.

I’m also not honest enough about just how hard it is sometimes to be social and sober-abstinent at the same time. Last night I stayed in the hotel because I wanted nothing to do with people.

I’m not saying what I’ve written before was a lie. It wasn’t. But it wasn’t the full, naked and ugly truth, either. I hold little details back. Some things just feel too private to share.

I guess that’s just part of being human.

Whatever the case may be, I don’t want people thinking I’m better than I am and inflating my head with high praise.

Instead, just help keep me honest.

(Image originally appeared on the SodaHead site )

 

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When The Music’s Over…

Twenty years ago, as a student at North Shore Community College, I was obsessed with The Doors. My ambition was to be Jim Morrison. I’m glad I got over it.

Mood music:

Back then, I fancied myself a poet. I joined the Poet’s Society. I grew my hair long and started wearing a pair of leather pants I had borrowed from Sean Marley (back then, I could actually fit into them). I wore a suit jacket and leather boots to complete the look.

I didn’t like who I was, so it made perfect sense to try being someone else. It was a habit I would indulge in many times over.

It was also a side-effect of the fear I used to carry around. The first Gulf War was about to begin and there were a lot of kids worried about getting drafted, including me. So we tried to relive the lives of Baby Boomers from the 1960s as a bizarre comfort ritual.

One guy from Lynn took it further than me. He wore tie-dye t-shirts with fringe boots. He was a big guy and looked more comical than anything else. He would tell anyone in the smoking room who would listen that John Lennon was something close to the Second Coming of Christ.

Me and Sean took a bus ride with this guy down to Washington D.C. for a peace rally in front of the White House a couple days after the war started.  That was quite a sight: Me trying to look like Jim Morrison, the other guy trying to look like Jerry Garcia. Sean was the most normal looking of the three of us. Those who knew Sean and his frequent hair-color changes will appreciate the absurdity of the sight.

The war ended quickly, but then Oliver Stone’s “The Doors” came out, with Val Kilmer playing Jim Morrison. I latched on to Morrison’s rejection of his family. I wasn’t getting along with various family members, so there was another easy out from dealing with life.

I started drinking harder alcohol and fasting because that’s what Morrison did. When I would shift from fasting to binge eating I would grow a beard and just carry on like I was the Morrison of later years, when he got bloated from drinking and grew facial hair.

The dean of students at N.S.C.C. brought me in a copy of Rolling Stone from 1971 — the issue covering Morrison’s death. He let me keep it, and wrote a note across the bottom right side of the cover about how Morrison was an interesting figure, but that I needed to find my own path.

I also started singing in a band called Skeptic Slang, where I started trying to perfect the grunge version of Morrison.

Then I started to really get out of shape and lost the ability to keep up with the hours musicians typically kept. I turned my attention to journalism, and that’s where I made my career.

Of course, I developed a lot of the bad habits that fit the stereotypical image of a reporter in the 1970s and 80s — bad eating habits, drinking and smoking and other things a person can rarely afford on a reporter’s salary.

I stopped listening to The Doors for a long, long time. But the other day, for whatever reason, I started listening again.

But it’s not the same as it was back then.

I have a real life now, and it’s easier to be me than somebody else.

Besides, I’ve tried to be other people at other points of my life.

It didn’t work out.

I do still have the facial hair, but I found it easier to maintain a bald head than maintain the hair style.

To be me is much simpler in that respect — even if being me is hopelessly complicated in other areas.

Jim-Morrison-Rolling-Stone-543709

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Some Days, I Don’t Have My Shit Together

A lot of people read this blog because I always try to put a silver lining on tough stuff. But some days I fail to live up to the image. Yesterday was one of those days, when I let a 7-year-old get the better of me.

Mood music:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mX8n5IiSB-8&fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0]

You see, Duncan is like me in that too much winter messes with his mental balance. He’ll get goofy, sad and every emotion in between at the drop of a hat. And he has a terrible time focusing.

We’re not sure what it’s about, but since it happens every year between December and March, it’s not a stretch to conclude there’s a winter-related cause.

Like father, like son.

Yesterday he was unfocused when he needed to be getting his homework done. He had a Cub Scouts meeting early and that put some added pressure on us. When he does his homework, you really need to stand over him. But I always struggle with this, because the OCD pushes me to do seven things at once, especially on a tight schedule.

So Duncan kept fooling around and doing his homework in an excruciatingly slow manner.

So my voice started to get a little louder every few minutes. And Duncan still stayed all over the place.

So then I really snapped at him.

I didn’t hit him. We don’t believe in hitting our kids. But I yelled. A lot.

I nixed his going to the Scouts meeting. That was appropriate, since he still had too much homework left and that comes before the fun stuff.

To some or most of you all this may read like a typical afternoon with children. Kids get a little out of control and the parent in the room has to open the can of whoop-ass.

But to me, it was a loss of control. Worse, I feel like I should be A LOT more patient with the boy, since he’s under the same spell I’m under.

Whatever it was, I didn’t feel good about it.

I am thankful for a few things, though:

–We’re getting Duncan evaluated by a medical professional to see if he has any disorders. Whatever the verdict, we’ll get some direction on how to help him along.

–Duncan is a sweet boy, and it’s impossible to stay mad at him for long. Especially when he gives you a big hug and apologizes for being difficult.

–Erin was a calming presence, reminding me that this is a particularly bad winter and everyone is on a short fuse because of it. 

–At the end of the day, I kissed my wife as she was leaving for a school board meeting, I tucked Duncan into bed and got some one-on-one time with Sean.

–There isn’t the thick, stinking cloud of rage hanging in the air. Love wins out over anger.

Because of all these things, this family is going to be just fine, thanks.

Even if I can’t always get my shit together.

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Stuff My Kids (and Niece) Say, Part 4

Parenthood is painful at times, especially when one or both parents has had a mental illness that makes the smallest things seem like calamities.

Addictive behavior isn’t good for parenting because it makes you selfish. A selfish parent is a disaster.

Mood music:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RZXaoaK8NI&fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0]

I’m constantly worried about the kids inheriting my genetic disposition toward mental disorder. But Duncan helps me out, as does Sean, and, increasingly, their cousin Madison. In between the various meltdowns, the three children let loose with a lot of witty words that lifts my spirits.

You can read part 1 of the series here, part 2 here and part 3 here.

I think you’ll walk away feeling that life isn’t so tough when you’ve seen it from a child’s perspective.

And now for Part 4…

“The sequel to “Throw Mama From The Train” is being made at Brenner Manor. It’s called “Throw Daddy Under the Bus.” Me, after the kids gleefully told their mom that I showed them the South Park J-Lo Taco songs.

“Tormenting your kids, pt. 54: Release a loud cackle as your children get out of your car and into the school they hoped would close today.” Me, an hour before finding out that the kids were being sent home after only 90 minutes of school.

“You are the picture of evil.” Sean, after I made them do homework on their snow day.

Duncan: “Daaaaad… Sean kicked me.” Sean: “What? We’re playing ninja. Ninjas kick a lot.”

Duncan: “Daaaad, Sean spat on me.” Sean: “I was doing sound effects. They produce spit. You should have had the sense to get out of the way.”

Duncan took a swing at Sean after Sean told him: “You’d be the perfect child if God gave you everything but a mouth.”

Duncan just told me that I’m a “pain in his bum-bum.” He’s not amused that I’m amused by that statement.

“Hanging out with you is challenging.” Duncan, after I wrestled him to the floor in a good-natured game of rough housing.

Early one Saturday morning: Is it bad that I’m letting Sean use scissors in the dark? He says he “can see perfectly fine.” In fact, he says, “I cut better in the dark.”

Sean, pretending to be a clone trooper from Star Wars: “I hate this job. I don’t get MLK Day off. Crap, I didn’t even get Christmas off!”

Duncan, twirling his toy lightsaber: “You can call me Jedi Bob.” Sean: “I’d rather call you an idiot.”

Me: “Come on, kids, come help me fold laundry.” Sean: “Dad, can’t you see I’m in the middle of a thought outburst?”

Erin: I’m always surprised at my children’s ability to read a long-winded, gross joke once and repeat it verbatim.” Me: “I’m less surprised. They’re wearing my genes.”

My 2 yr old niece eats her “cakies” when Duncan walks in, says they’re “pancakes” and walks away. The niece asks: “What’s wrong with him?”

The niece: “I ate all my blueberries. I ate all my blueberries. I ate all my blueberries. I ate all my blueberries. I ate all my…”

“Wow, the pilots really eat their words in this movie.” Sean, after the x-wing pilot gets blown up after bragging about locking on target.

Me to Sean: “I have a thought.” Sean: “There’s a 50-50 chance I’m gonna protest it.”

Sean: “Duncan, how many kids do you plan to have?” Duncan: “20: 10 girls, 10 boys.” Sean: “I can’t watch all those kids. Scale it back.”

Duncan, regarding his brother: “Sean is a moron, loved by all for his moron-ness.”

Me: “Stop throwing snowballs at the neighbor’s dog, Sean.” Sean: “What the heck for?”

The mournful groan that just came from Sean almost makes the niece’s request for “Calliou” worth it. Almost.

Sean regarding my last comment: “Caillou must die-you.” 

Duncan on Santa: “If you don’t believe you don’t receive.”

Sean’s 9-year-old reaction to news that Uncle Brian is getting married: “Oh yeah? Whatever.”

Duncanism of the day: If the inside of my head was empty, I’d be light-headed.

Sean’s reaction to the Duncanism of the day: “Duncan, you infuriate me.”