Our vaginas will never be the same, but sure, you can have an entire day, too.
No matter how I slice this turd cake, someone is gonna get pissed. With any luck, I’ll offend both sides equally.
Dad, before I begin, I just want you to know that I love you. And, that I’ll probably say “vagina” more than you’re comfortable with.
In the resplendent words of a true champion of our generation, Kid Rock, “Being a father helps me be more responsible… you see more things than you’ve ever seen.”
Kid Rock is hardly the poster boy for the responsible adult male I want my son or husband emulating. If by, “see more things than you’ve ever seen,” he means color variations and firmness of stool; I concur. If he means, toys jammed into bodily orifices, projectile vomit from what appears to be every exit site, and tantrums bordering on psychosis; I agree.
If cleaning up shit, puke, & piss, pulling a Lego from your kid’s nose, or dislodging a micro-machine from your son’s ass has made you a more responsible human being, mazel tov! Your mother must be so proud. The moment most mother’s push our bundles of joy through our vaginas we become responsible human beings. Not because we enjoy it, but because we’re certain we never want to do that shit again.
We’ve just spent between 4 and 36 (sometimes 72) hours pushing 7-12 lbs. of a soon to be screaming human through something the size of a lipstick tube. Sounds pretty amazing, huh? Yeah…kinda like pushing a Swingline stapler through your urethra for about a day. Can’t wait to start scrap-booking those memories, right?
God bless the moms’ who’ve done this more than once. Your vaginas hate you, but you now have a small army of children to choose from who you’ll guilt into helping care for you in your old age. My advice? Shit yourself often. Throw tantrums. Pretend to forget how to perform simple tasks. Always take your shoes back off. And, when all else fails – shit yourself, again.
Having covered the destruction of the vagina (not mine, I had a C-section, thank God), it’s time to turn our attention to yesterday’s 2nd Place Winner: Dad.
My Dad is fucking amazing. Let me tell you about him briefly.
Dennis came into the picture when I was 2. If you ask my Grandmother (maternal), he cut short his rap session with Jesus and put the mid-quarterly projections meeting on the backburner. He slapped on an ill-fitting pair of corduroy pants, strutted down to Earth, and met up with my mom at the Naval Supply Center, where she was working as a secretary.
They spent 10 years making each other completely fucknuts crazy. I loved him, my mom loved him, when she wasn’t intentionally trying to irritate him, and my Grandparents thought he ice skated on water. Jesus had the “walking on water” thing branded; it’s his shtick.
Dennis is a great guy. As a comedian, he always had us laughing. As my mother’s former husband and my father, I feel he’s been overlooked for some sort of sainthood; knighthood at the very least. Imagine an angry, drunk, vulgar woman, with a propensity for physical violence. There, you’ve met my mom circa 1985. I’m a photostatic copy. 2001-2013.
I couldn’t tell you what year mom got sober, but it was long after they separated and a few years before I did. Dad had picked up the pieces of his life, too, and was doing well. He was doing so well in fact, that when the time came for me to get my bullshit together, I called him.
My Grandmother was more committed than ever to the idea that my stepfather was, at the very least, a close disciple of Jesus. For fuck’s sake, she still hadn’t taken down the photo above the mantel of the 3 of us together in over 30 years! It hangs there as a sad reminder of long-lost fashion trends and bad home perms. It’s a prickle down the spine of my mother’s new love interests during the holidays. That’s either a rock-solid belief in true love or some grade-A Catholic guilt at work. Well done, Grandma. Well done, indeed.
It’s hilarious, really.
My Dad taught me how to throw a proper punch. Some would argue my form is shit. I would argue I was 6 and you can go fuck yourself! The point is, not many dads back then were teaching their daughters how to defend themselves.
He taught me how to hold a golf club; we often went to the driving range. Sorry, Dad, I find golf to be literally the most boring sport ever! It’s even more fucking boring than tennis. Who the hell even understands how to score tennis? Not even making fun of the caddy is enough to make it worth watching for me. I can still hold a club though and would still go hit a bucket with you.
Basically, my Dad is Superman. Nah…Batman. My Dad is Batman; if Bruce Wayne had a side gig as a comedian because that shit with his parents didn’t totally fuck him up and Alfred wasn’t on his dick all the time about getting back to the cave and maintaining a low profile. The old man is always cockblocking.
We all make sacrifices in life. When you become a parent, there are plenty of sacrifices you make without fully understanding they’re happening. You will never eat a meal in peace for a full year, often up to 3. You will never occupy more than 1/4 of shared bed space, irrespective of occupants additional to yourself and the demon child. You will never buy yourself an article of clothing without first thinking, “does the demon seed need something more?”
My Vagina, remembers
Sure, our vaginas remember months (10, but who’s counting) of discomfort. It isn’t just the labor. It’s going to the bathroom every twenty minutes. It’s the pressure that comes along with Joey sitting on, jumping on, and playing kickball in our uterus. When he’s more dexterous he plays jump rope with our umbilical cord. That’s fun. Then he uses the inside of our “tummy” as speed bag. We’ll coo and say, “look at him moving!” It’s all magic, topped with heartburn, swollen ankles, morning sickness and incredible mood swings. Thank God we all have amazing skin and hair by this point.
But, it’s a beautiful process and we’re so glad you’re here with us.
Fathers’ play a vital role in the raising of our children. I can’t teach my son to dismantle the remote control and put it back together. It doesn’t work? Time to buy a new one. Hell, I’d drive around without windshield wipers if the ones I had were bad. If shit in my house breaks, it just dies. I’ll figure out how to live without it if I can’t afford to replace it. My husband, however, not only takes it apart – fucking up my entire living room for no less than two weeks – but he shows my son how to repair it (mostly).
My husband is not my child’s biological father. Dennis is not my biological father. It changes absolutely nothing. Both men have given their all in helping raise incredible jackasses. Jackasses of epic proportion. As I am the photostatic image of my mother, so, my son is of me.
These guys may not have shoved a stapler through their urethra, but showing up for children, especially someone else’s, and devoting themselves to some crazy bitches deserves some recognition.
If you’re a dad who tries – thank you. Sometimes you’re not always able to participate in the lives of your children. I get it. If you give a shit and you’ve tried, thank you. If you’re an active parent – keep that shit up, man. We appreciate you! Well, except for when you tell us you’re gonna do something and we come home and you’re still sitting on the couch in your underwear. We hate that, just stop. If you’re a step-dad – that’s warrior class. You guys are some special forces shit. You probably could pass a stapler through your penis.
You may not have shit yourselves giving birth to the child who gave you hemorrhoids during pregnancy or had to massage your tits in the shower because they were painful and hot, full of milk, but we’re still glad you’re around. Here’s to you! Happy Father’s Day!