I coach little league. I tie shoes. I straighten hats. I answer the most ridiculous questions.

I coach little league. I instruct the uninstructable. I coach kindergartners and first-graders to keep their hands to themselves. I say things like, “Sit down, E! Stand up, T!, and Wake up, C!”

I stop the construction of makeshift sand castles at shortstop. I break up wrestling matches among teammates in left field. I demand no more singing of  “I’m Sexy and I Know It” on the bench. I coach little league and I love it!

Coaching little league is five percent baseball and ninety-five percent World Ethics 101. Getting a six-year old to hit a baseball is easy. Getting that same little leaguer to sit on a bench for forty-five seconds straight is damn near impossible.

Coaching little league is like being a press secretary. There’s a rapid fire of unanswerable questions at all times. And if you don’t pay attention you just might make the news with a wrong answer.

Little Leaguer: Coach, do you like my haircut?

Me: Get back in the batter’s box.

LL: Is the game almost over?

Me: Nah, it’s the first inning. Take your glove off of your head.

LL: I’m hungry.

Me: Eat some grass.

LL: Can I play first base?

Me: No. You can play third base or sit the bench.

LL: I wanna sit on the bench.

Me: It’s your turn to bat.

LL: When is Christmas?

Me: After the season.

LL: I have to go to the bathroom.

Me: Go find your father.

LL: Can you help me with my cup in my pants?

Me: Go find your mother.

LL: Can I keep this ball?

Me: No, we’re stilling playing with that ball. It’s the first inning.

LL: I’m hungry.

Me: Here, have some almonds.

LL: But Coach, I think I’m allerg…

Me: Be quiet, eat up and play ball.

I coach my son’s little league team with a friend from the neighborhood. We live in a small community and we already knew most of the boys on our team before the season started. Most of the boys are neighbors and classmates. These other boys  are our new friends.  

The beauty about living in a small community is interacting with other families. It’s about being part of people’s lives and watching the growth of children, yours and others. One year a neighborhood mother is helping my son with Early Intervention Speech Therapy. The next year I’m helping her son hit a baseball and watching his eyes light up when he reaches first base.  It doesn’t matter if you lose 25-21 in the box score, because you still walk away a winner.

Sure, I love watching my own son hit the ball up the middle and slide awkwardly into second base. That’s a reward in itself. But I also love watching the smallest kid on the team get the big hit, and I love watching the biggest kid on the team make a small play.

I originally shied away from coaching because I never wanted to be That Guy. You know That Guy, right? That Guy yells at his kid and yours to CATCH THE FRIGGIN BALL! That Guy yells at umpires and puts together highlight film of his seven-year-old to send to colleges in hopes for an early scholarship. That Guy never realized his own big league dream and he’s taking it out on your little leaguer.

I used to write local sports for a newspaper and I came across That Guy every week. So much so, it made me think twice about my own role in my son’s sport’s life. But when my friend asked to help him coach the team I jumped at the chance. And I think I’ve succeeded so far in not being That Guy.

I expect that our boys listen. I expect that they try and challenge themselves. I expect that they take the opportunity to succeed and cheer them on if they don’t. I expect that they enjoy themselves. 

I expect that they respect each other. I expect that they get better. But mostly, I expect that they go to the bathroom before they show up to the field. I’m not joking. It’s like a Flomax commercial out there. These little leaguers are running around the diamond with the overactive bladders of sixty-year old men.

But so far nobody has pee’d on third base. So far nobody has bled on home plate. So far we haven’t been in the E.R. or in the newspaper. There’s been a lot whining and a little crying, but mostly it’s from the sidelines. And lastly, we’ve had no quitters. This is how I measure success as a little league coach. After twelve games we are still undefeated in my opinion.

I am a little league coach…and I need a drink.

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 I am Kevin Harris, a father of four and husband to one very understanding woman. And yes, we know exactly what’s causing all these pregnancies! My home life makes me smile and I like to share that laughter with others. Hopefully, you can find a bit of your home life reflecting in my pathetic blog. Like it. Seriously, you know you want to. Just click the damn thumb already. For more of my writing I suggest you visit my favorites page….http://mypatheticblog.tumblr.com/tagged/favorites

It was the two-headed cat in the jar that did me in….And I never even saw it coming.

The moment that two-headed cat was even mentioned I felt my twinge in my knees. My temperature raised five degrees. The air was released from my lungs. That’s because I am squeamish, and it sneaks up on me in the strangest places. This time I was in the basement of the Academy of Sciences Museum of Philadelphia.

I was a chaperon for my son’s first-grade trip. And I was also fighting through a mini, mental panic attack. Perhaps, I was the one who needed a chaperon.

I have been a chaperon before and I will be one again. Yet, sometime during every school trip I am stricken with the following realization, “Holy Shit. I am supposed to be the responsible one here!”

That’s right. People are dependent on me making correct decisions. Children look to me for leadership. Other people’s children’s are in my capable hands. A younger, more fragile Kevin would bow out of consideration of this job. But present me? I am a smart, rational parent of four children and I can handle a school trip with a bunch of self-sufficient six-year-old kids.

I conquered the Philadelphia Zoo, Paw’s Farm, Storybookland and the fire station. But can I handle the basement of a museum and thousands of specimen in little jars staring at me?

I should’ve realized that it was going to be a long day when on the way to the museum I noticed an aid package attached to the inside wall of the yellow school bus. It read, “Body Fluid Cleanup Kit.” This made me giggle. However, it was a strict reminder of the exact world I was living in in the moment.

The Academy of Sciences Museum of Philadelphia is your basic, run-of-the-mill school trip museum.  There are dinosaur bones, fossils, taxidermied stuffed animals, and a gift shop. All of this was fine and dandy, but the Riverton Elementary School trip got a special treat yesterday. Thanks to former Riverton student and current curator/collector Ned, we were given a private tour of the museum innards.

Try and imagine the basement of a museum in one of the oldest cities in America. Now make this imaginary basement ever smaller, narrower, damper, scarier and darker than what you first envisioned. Then litter it was bones. There are bones everywhere. Bones to a museum basement are like used car tires to the side of a gas station. There are bones on tables. There are bones on top of lockers. There are bones hanging from the sewage pipes. There bones lining the walls. This is not a first-grade class trip. This is the final scene of Poltergeist.

Ned led our class to a tiny cubby area in the basement. There was a table of stuffed rodents with their bones stashed in little viles. Overlooking our group were two-dozen gigantic skulls. Ned talked openly about blood and guts, then ghoulishly eyed us up and said, “You guys wanna see a brain?”

When I say that I am squeamish I mean that I an anxious, claustrophobic, panicking kinda guy. I do not like blood and guts, or anything to do with biology. When presented with this matter I am always on the edge of losing my shit. When I say that I am squeamish I mean that I am a pussy. You would not want to go to war with me at your side. I may run fast. I am probably a good shot, but the first sign of blood would have me screaming for a medic and some orange juice.

Is it wrong of me that the entire time during this basement trip I was hoping, praying that one of the children might get sick? Giving me an opportunity to get the hell out of that basement.  I kept saying to my own son, “Honey, are you okay?” This was my only exit strategy.

But don’t worry. I soldiered on. As Ned talked about the size of an elephant’s brain I found a stool to sit on and I smiled away. I mentally took a trip to the seashore. The beach breeze cooled the back of my neck. The tide swept my ankles and chilled my soul. I was okay.

Ned then led our group through a two-foot-wide aisle of storage lockers. Each locker contained a different family of mammal skeletons. Ok, this was pretty cool…Pretty cool if you like the Roman catacombs and Quentin Tarantino movies.

I knew I should’ve ate something before I left the house this morning. I knew I should’ve packed a breakfast bar in my pocket for emergencies. But I soldiered on. Even if I did want to run out of there I was stuck so far deep into the belly of this museum that I wouldn’t even know where to go.

Then Ned pushed me to my limit. He brought our group to this tiny room with fluorescent lighting. The room was lined with miles of jars of all sizes filled with formaldehyde and every animal specimen you could imagine. There were frogs, bats, gorilla brains and a two-headed cat!

And I’m not kidding when I say that there was a fucking tiger in a jar….A TIGER IN A JAR! Picture if your child shoved his stuffed Tigger doll into a cookie jar and doused it with gasoline.

This is about the time I was able to talk myself off the anxiety cliff. If a goddamn tiger managed to get himself stuffed into a jar than I don’t stand a chance in this world. My little, weak panic-stricken pea brain would have to get over itself and realize that I was most likely going to be walking out of there alive. Unless of course,  Ned got some strange idea about filling up another dozen jars of formaldehyde with me and my son’s first-grade class.

So I took out my notebook and wrote the following….Ask more questions before you sign up for the next class trip.

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 I am Kevin Harris, a father of four and husband to one very understanding woman. And yes, we know exactly what’s causing all these pregnancies! My home life makes me smile and I like to share that laughter with others. Hopefully, you can find a bit of your home life reflecting in my pathetic blog. Like it. Seriously, you know you want to. Just click the damn thumb already. For more of my writing I suggest you visit my favorites page….http://mypatheticblog.tumblr.com/tagged/favorites

I’m writing to let you all know our a recent punishment that we gave out to our kid last nite. Our daughters NOT allowed to read for a week and we appreciate if you enforced this in the classroom also. If you guys can’t help me keep this punishment we will have to keep her out of school four the week.

You herd me write. It might seem strange to you people, but our daughter loves to read and we wanted this punishment to really hurt her. She don’t like video games much like her mama. Or watching the tv like her brothers. We can’t keep her away from the boys cause she aint got no boyfriends yet (and probly wont if she keeps all that reading). But she does like to read her books. So four one week we are taken her books aways. That’ll learn her to be so smart around us.

Reading is how she got into this mess to begin with. When I was on Facebook on Sunday I told my daughter to change her baby brother’s diaper. She kept saying, “wait til after this chapter.” That’s when I blew my top and threw that book away. It was called Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  I think this book is supposed to be like the movie.  I don’t know why she don’t just watch the movie anyways.

It’s those kinds of books that are causing all these problems at home. She reads these books and she thinks she can be anything in the whole world. But all she really is is a big sister with a little brother that has some poop in his diaper that needs some help.  How am I supposed to get them Angry Birds to the next level if I can’t get help from my kids with the kids?

So we told that girl that she is not allowed to read the books or read her homework for an attire week. She is not allowed to read street signs or tv commercials. She ain’t even allowed to read her math equations at the school or the funny pages that she steals from our neighbors recycling bucket. That girl lives in a fantasy world inside all them books and now it’s back to the real world for her.

Sincerly Thanks,

Abigail’s Mama

Dummy me went and got all full of myself. I signed up for a Marathon and then I told the world. It’s on Facebook now. So I have no choice, but to do it to it.

I have just one year of running behind me, but the five hundred miles of pavement pounding in the last twelve months is certainly something of an accomplishment. I don’t just do things. I obsess over things. (And not always in a good way.)  That’s how a one-mile weekly run, turned into three four-mile runs per week. It’s how a random four-mile Saturday run turned into a 12-mile journey. It’s how a 5K, three-mile race turned into a 26.2 mile Marathon registration.

I have knocked off a few 10K’s and ten-milers this year with complete success. I signed up for the Philadelphia Rock ‘n Roll Half Marathon coming this September. And then I took that extra step and registered for the Philadelphia Marathon in November.

I have never been so close to being marathon-trained in my life, and probably will never be so close again. So I must act now and cross this one off my imaginary bucket list. Or at least that’s what other people tell me. But I’m not running for other people. So why do I run?

I run for myself. Selfish, indeed. But I run to make myself feel better, for my health, my head and my heart.  The fact that it affects the others around me is merely a coincidence. When I run I feel better about myself. When I feel better about myself I treat others better. It’s a simple equation, yet true.

Somewhere out there in the middle of every run I rediscover the fact that I am one lucky son of a bitch. I have a beautiful home filled with beautiful people. I am healthy, happy, employed, and loved. Somewhere out there during a long run, when the endorphins are released I start to feel a love for this world, for my world that is not easily come by under normal circumstances. It’s odd, really, that I need to run five miles away from my home to remind myself just how much I like it there.

I run for the T-shirt. I ran for ten miles on Sunday and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. This lousy, little long-sleeve T-shirt may have cost me sixty bucks and months of training but it was well worth it. This lousy T-Shirt, dri-fit and advertised  is my little trophy. For signing up. For showing up. For finishing a promise to myself.

I will wear this T-shirt every chance I get. I will wear it when I pick up my kids from school and to work meetings. This is my trophy and I will wear it with pride. What other kind of trophy can you drag around town advertising your hard work?  A running T-shirt is the trophy of all trophies. 

I run for my children. I am defined by this world as a father, even thru my four children’s eyes. I want those Buzzkills to see me as an individual with goals and accomplishments. For a long time I was just a guy that dragged his ass back and forth from work. Occasionally, I stepped out on my family for a game of poker or a Phillies’ game with my father.

My kids know nothing, but they do know that running a race is a big deal, whether it’s three miles or twenty-six-point-two. They know it takes time, and dedication, and training. They see me go out at dusk on some random Wednesday night and they know I will come back months later on a Sunday morning with a smile on my face and a racing medal around my neck. They see this, and I hope they can see themselves in the process.

I run to bring my sexy back. The only thing sexier than lathering up my nipples with Udder Cream before a race, is removing my socks post-race to find a quarter sized blood blister on my tall toe. A runner’s body is not always all that it’s cracked up to be.

Standing directly next to me at the starting line is a blonde couple who look like they just walked off the set of a Runner’s World magazine cover shoot.  She is a Nordic goddess standing three inches taller than me. Next to her is a Nordic God that covers three inches on her. Her hips are up to my nipples. My head is up to his nipples. I can see each training mile in their tanned, toned legs.

I am reminded now that I am no Nordic God. However, I am also no The Biggest Loser contestant. I’ll take that as a win.

I run to get it done. How meta of me, I know. My mantra when I run is the following….the faster you run the faster you’re done. I say this over and over and over again until I cross that imaginary finish line.

Somewhere around the half point mark of every run it strikes me that I might be running another twenty minutes, or forty minutes, or one hour, or however long any particular run make last. The upcoming marathon will take me four hours to complete. And that would be considered fast.

I can’t imagine doing anything for four hours straight. Not eating pizza. Not having sex. I don’t like to watch movies that are longer than two hours, and the only commitment there is a couch and a bucket of popcorn. And here I am signed up for a four- to six-hour race. So, if you are near Philadelphia on November 18 and you here my the following chant over and over again….the faster you run the faster you’re done…. the faster you run the faster you’re done…. the faster you run the faster you’re done….you know it will be me.

Until then…Wish me luck.

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I am Kevin Harris, a father of four and husband to one very understanding woman. And yes, we know exactly what’s causing all these pregnancies! My home life makes me smile and I like to share that laughter with others. Hopefully, you can find a bit of your home life reflecting in my pathetic blog. Like it. Seriously, you know you want to. Just click the damn thumb already. For more of my writing I suggest you visit my favorites page….http://mypatheticblog.tumblr.com/tagged/favorites

To my beard, beloved and departed. I know it’s been just minutes since you left my face, but I already miss your embrace.

There have been beards before you. And I’m sure there will be other beards to come. But none will be quite like you. We’ve only been together just for six months, but this is one breakup that I am not going to get over anytime soon. I will lament you like a lover with a pop breakup song. 

Every time I look in that mirror and witness your absence from my face the tune of Gotye’s Somebody That I Use to Know plays in my head. …But you didn’t have to cut me off. Make out like it never happened, and that now we’re nothing. And I don’t even need your love…But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough.

Every time I see an old picture of us on Facebook together Adele’s Someone Like You loops in my mind….I hate to turn up out of the blue, uninvited. But I couldn’t stay away, I couldn’t fight it. I had hoped you’d see my face and that you’d be reminded that for me, it isn’t over yet.

Every time I go to caress you on my face to find that you are no longer there Phil Collins’ Against All Odds rings between my ears…..So take a look at me now cause there’s just an empty space. And there’s nothing left here to remind me, just the memory on your face.

As I shaved you this morning, as I removed you from my life I thought of all the great memories we’ve shared. Each clump of hair that landed in the sink was another memory.

…Like the time we went to see the Van Gogh exhibit at the Philadelphia Art Museum. That man approached us in a whisper saying, “You look the artist himself.” What a beautiful compliment. Sure, Van Gogh was crazy…Crazy handsome!

And another clump hit the sink.

…Like the time we were working and that man told us that we reminded him of Dos Equis’ The Most Interesting Man in the World. A compliment of all compliments! Even so, The Most Interesting Man in the World would be all the more interesting to have a beard like you.

And another piece of you falls in the drain.

….Like the time we were running the Philadelphia Broad Street Ten Miler race and one of the spectators from the sidelines shouted, “Nice beard!” Yes, he shouted to me, to us in a run that included 33,977 people. In the split second that we ran past he could not help himself but to shout, “Nice beard!” Do you remember that, dear beard? Of course you do. It was just yesterday. And it was fabulous!

That’s what you did for me, dear beard. You separated me from the pack. You made me an individual. You took an otherwise plain, middle-class suburban white man and dressed him like unique mad, drifter from somewhere beyond. You gave me mystique. And what did I do for you? Sure, I gave you life. And then I took your life. 

You and I both knew this day was coming. You can blame it on my wife, or my daughter. You can blame it on my boss, or all the judgmental playground looks. But the truth is that I always knew this day would come.

The beauty of an affair with a beard is it has a lifespan, a beginning and an end. Not at all like a marriage that drags on forever. Not at all like a job that you wish would end immediately.  My tryst with you beard, though short lived, will live in my heart forever.

Because Phil Collins was sooo right…..You’re the only one who really knew me at all.

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I am Kevin Harris, a father of four and husband to one very understanding woman. And yes, we know exactly what’s causing all these pregnancies! My home life makes me smile and I like to share that laughter with others. Hopefully, you can find a bit of your home life reflecting in my pathetic blog. Like it. Seriously, you know you want to. Just click the damn thumb already. For more of my writing I suggest you visit my favorites page….http://mypatheticblog.tumblr.com/tagged/favorites

Big news! Sesame Street Singing With the Stars was released today on DVD.

Find here at….http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dvd-sesame-street-singing-with-the-stars/23735422?ean=854392002476

This got me thinking about my favorite Sesame Street appearances – some on the DVD, some not. Here goes my Top Eight Sesame Street songs. Links included…

#1…Tilly and the Wall – The Alphabet Song…This, by far, is my favorite. Hipster-chik meets Sesame Street. I used to watch it with my children. Now I watch it alone. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rvNCmb9a6Qc

#2… Elvis Costello – Monster Went and Ate My Red 2 with Elmo…I’m quite certain I like this version better than Elvis’ Red Shoes…and that’s saying a lot because I love Elvis Costello. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KxardpBReQc

#3… Feist – 1,2,3,4…Did I ever tell you about the time that I met Feist. She threatened to kiss me, but reneged. I never forgave her for that. But I still like like her. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fZ9WiuJPnNA

#4… Katy Perry – Hot N’ Cold with Elmo…I’m certain that a father shouldn’t have these feelings watching morning children’s television. It should never move during Sesame Street. And maybe this is why this version never actually aired. Thank you, Youtube! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHROHJlU_Ng

#5… Jason Mraz – Outdoors with Elmo…I’d like to make fun of Jason Mraz, but I can’t stoppping singing this stupid song. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4jSA5S-NlP0&feature=fvst

#6… R.E.M – Furry Happy Monsters…This band got me through puberty, mostly because I always knew Michael Stipe was more awkward than I. Their sounds always makes me smile inside. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZXVvvRBBUn8

#7… Andrea Bocelli – Lullabye to Elmo… “Elmo isn’t sleepy. Elmo wants some water. And another stoooory!” Who knew Andrea Bocelli was blind? I didn’t, at least not the first fifty times I saw this. I just thought that’s the way real Italians looked. Anyway, this song always puts me to sleep…in a good way. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BDVvB7Xx1w

#8… Norah Jones – Don’t Know Y…Although, I love this version I don’t know why they didn’t stick with the original premise of the song and sing it ”Don’t Know Why U Didn’t Come?” I cannot watch this segment without this inner frustration. That’s just me. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FEzxchU4RUY

When I first talked to the defendant he sat in his prison cell. He was cold and without remorse. Obtuse to the charges against him, my new client deflected responsibility and sat in silence. I asked him why he thought he was being punished and he immediately blamed his brother escaping all charges against himself.

“Alex started it,” he repeated. Each time with a lower tone to his voice and a lower scowl to his brow.

I explained to my client that as his defense attorney the only way I could absolve him from his punishment or shorten his imprisonment would be if he fully disclosed the events that led him to a sentence in this 12 x 6 room. If I was going to stand in front of the judge and act as his only defendant I would need complete details of the acts in question.

He maintained his innocence stating that the entire world was against him. He stated that he was a victim of criminal profiling. He stated that he was not raised in a stable upbringing. He stated he was merely a product of his social surroundings.

This wasn’t just any defendant I was sitting beside in judgment. This was my son.  And the judge in this particular case was his mother, my wife. And this holding cell we were sitting in was one little boy’s bedroom. Usually bright and cheery with life, we sat in the dark on his bed shadowed in the light that applied only from the crack of the curtains.

As a defense attorney and a dad to this stubborn little six-year-old it was my duty to not clear him of these charges, but to plea down the punitive measures. The least I could do was lessen the charges to a misdemeanor. But as a husband to the judge, his mother, I knew that I was putting myself in a position of contempt. I had to balance the scales of justice to maintain a proper level of peace in my house.

It was a weekend afternoon and I jumped in the shower to prepare for work. This otherwise relaxing shower turned tense as I heard parental screams and a childlike, defensive cry coming from the hallway. I knew someone was in trouble. When I emerged from my fifteen-minute shower oasis I found my eldest son sulking in his dark bedroom appearing confused and defeated.

Overtime my wife and I have learned to stay out of each other’s way when it comes to punishment of the children. However, our pendulum of justice often swings to such extremes that we sometimes need each other to act as a mediator. I trust my wife enough to know that this little son-of-bitch was surely guilty of something, but it’s my instinct to act as a liaison to civility and help this child make parole when his number comes up for a hearing.

I could only assume what the charges were. First ruling out assault as the screams I heard were not “assault-like” screams. I am a father of four and know what assault sounds like. My very educated guess was that my son was probably being punished for some crime against the family. Perhaps a two-bit offense like ‘petty theft of a toy from a sibling’. This, coupled with one count of ‘resisting timeout’ and another count of ‘talking back.’ The sum of this rap sheet has led him to a room sentence for an undisclosed amount of time.

Marking off his time served with hash marks on his bedroom wall was a futile exercise not knowing the length of his punishment. And it was my job to get this family right before I left for work.

“It’s in your best interest to use ‘I’ words, son,” I explained to that little stubborn face. “When you get an opportunity to stand in front of Judge Mommy….When you get your chance to explain your case to the judge you need to accept responsibility. Tell your mother, ‘I am sorry. I know what I’ve done. I will not do it again.’ Tell your mother, ‘I will change my behavior. And I will learn from this.”

“But DADDY! I didn’t do anything!” the boy pleaded.

“Well. In that case Honey, you are on your own.” I arose from the bed and left his room giving him a kiss goodbye.

With this, I closed my briefcase and went back to getting ready for my real job. I knew what this boy needed most was time to reflect his crimes. As I tied my tie and shoes, and packed my lunch and i-pad I heard the judge head upstairs for the boy’s hearing. The talk was quiet, which I recognized to in my client’s favor.

I kissed the rest of the family and headed out for the driveway. By the time my key ignited the engine all was right with the world. My wife, the judge, was standing on my front porch with our six-year-old defendant in her arms like a newborn, forty-eight-pound baby. The two of them giggled and danced on those steps in forgiveness. They waved goodbye in unison.

This is the kind of peaceful, familiar mental photographs that drives me to work. This is the kind of moment that makes all that pro bono work worth it. Another case closed.

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I am Kevin Harris, a father of four and husband to one very understanding woman. And yes, we know exactly what’s causing all these pregnancies! My home life makes me smile and I like to share that laughter with others. Hopefully, you can find a bit of your home life reflecting in my pathetic blog.

Like it. Seriously, you know you want to. Just click the damn thumb already. For more of my writing I suggest you visit my favorites page….http://mypatheticblog.tumblr.com/tagged/favorites

I was at the funeral of a friend’s father when I bumped into a very old, dear childhood buddy.

In our boyhood we spent thousands of hours together. We were then, in fact, best friends. Since entering manhood we no longer share anything. We are now, in fact, strangers.

He is single. I am a father of four.

It took just seconds to catch up. He was still single. I was still a father of four. Sure, there is more to both of our lives. Though standing in that church aisle at that moment our lives were defined by these roles. Then he shocked me with the following statement.

“So, you have four kids now?” he laughed. “What? Did they, like, overtake your life?”

It was the most negative statement anyone has ever attributed to my life. More negative than the time that woman said, “you can afford four kids working here?” More negative than that time that strange woman counted my family as we walked into Wegmans.

Ironically, we were at a funeral of a man with six grown children. Grandchildren were everywhere. The church was filled with hundreds of friends and family members whose lives were touched by this man. The line to praise this man was out the door and into the parking lot.

What more can a dead man ask for?, I thought.

So to answer the question, “Did they, like, overtake your life?” ….…..FUCK YEAH THEY DID! AND I LOVE IT!

In truth, I did not set out for this large family. It was just slowly handed down to me over a decade. Pregnancies test sticks, delivery rooms, well visits, PB&J, movie night, little league and parent-teacher conferences are the terms of my life. Someone out there knew I needed this. Someone out there knew I could handle this. Someone out there knew someone else out there needed me.

Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to get these children to the finish line.

MISSION ACCEPTED!

There are perks to this life, of course. My calender is so full that I hardly have the time to lament what my life could’ve been. I am starting to realize that I will never be rich, or famous, or both. But I am starting not to care, fulfilled with my own big-cheese-status at home.

I am more than just a household name at a certain home on Cedar Street. I am a goddamn celebrity! I walk in the door and there’s a parade of people pushing at each other trying to get to my toes. I’m like a movie star strolling down the red carpet as one of the kids is snapping photos. I’m like a sports hero walking out of the locker room into the arena as my wife is urging me to put me autograph on something. I’m like a politician promising ice cream after dinner and kissing babies hello.

I am surrounded by people, by love. Everyday is a house party. Isn’t this what we always wanted in our college years? I dropped out of college because I couldn’t sit in my dorm room by myself and do work, constantly gravitating to any room filled by others. And now I cannot find a room in my house that doesn’t have another heartbeat in it.

My house is like an eternal party. People everywhere. My living room is lined wall-to-wall with little bodies and plastic red cups, loud music and constant conversation. Someone is always looking to play a game. Inevitably, there’s a fight between two others. Surely, someone else will throw up. And at the end of the day someone is running around naked. My life is a constant Thursday night frat party.

“What? Did they, like, overtake your life?”…..YOU ARE GOD DAMN RIGHT THEY DID! AND I LOVE IT!

This statement was made almost a year ago, but still haunts me. Not for what it says about me now with a family, but for what it says about what I could’ve been without my family.

I think about what it might be like to not have someone, anyone to hug at any given moment. There is always someone on the couch to cuddle. There is always someone to talk to at the dining room table. There is always someone to have a baseball catch with in the backyard. Some nights I shout, ‘ice cream run’ and I’m joined by a handful of people. Other nights I scream, ‘beer run’ and my wife understands!

I have created my own little empire where everyone looks to me for leadership. Yes, I am overtaken by these kids, overruled by care, overrun by love and occupied by these little heartbeats…and my heart beats because of it.

I don’t know any other way.

One month ago I had the opportunity to spend the night away from my family alone in some far off city down the shore. I was bored to death. Okay, so there was the eight-ball of cocaine I shared with some strangers at the strip club. And there was the hooker-party at the house later. But at the end of the night I felt so alone.

Actually, it wasn’t like that at all. Perhaps, I’m just not that fun anymore. I went to dinner by myself and sat alone. I watched a movie on my laptop on a sofa bed.  I spent a lot of time staring out the window expecting the minivan to pull up any minute. It never did. So I slept off the loneliness. Boy, did I sleep! (This part, is definitely recommended.)

I don’t know what it’s like to be a single man. I’m not sure that I ever truly knew what that was like. It just might be fabulous. I don’t know? But I do know that I never want to find out.

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I am Kevin Harris, a father of four and husband to one very understanding woman. And yes, we know exactly what’s causing all these pregnancies! My home life makes me smile and I like to share that laughter with others. Hopefully, you can find a bit of your home life reflecting in my pathetic blog. Like it. Seriously, you know you want to. Just click the damn thumb already. For more of my writing I suggest you visit my favorites page…. http://mypatheticblog.tumblr.com/tagged/favorites

This blog post contains language of a sexual nature. Beware…or enjoy! Whatever meets your fancy!                 

Men, consider this a warning. There is sex in the air, and that is not good thing.

One book series, one dirty little trilogy of erotica has every fourth woman out there acting like some crazed teen-aged girl who just saw a picture of a penis in a elementary textbook. You’ve seen the looks in the supermarket, men. You’ve caught those weird smiles at the convenience store. You’ve smelled the pheromones at the park. The chemistry of the air of the public has changed and it stinks of Fifty Shades of Grey.

Dubbed ‘mommy porn’ due to its attraction by an ‘older’ demographic of women, this book is not merely a fad but a juggernaut of pent-up sexual energy decades in the making. This book is Harry Potter, the Pet Rock and the goddamn hula-hoop all tied together in one with a whip.

The story of this book is everywhere…NPR, Entertainment Weekly, New York Times, 60 Minutes, O Magazine and morning programming on every morning television channel….This book, this smutty tome has been read by millions of women and I’m telling you that its public hormonal release has temporarily changed the complexion of the world.

Since this book has hit the veins of Main Street, Suburbia women have been walking the malls of America in taller pumps and in tighter pants than ever. And they have been throwing around flirtations that are making this married man a little uncomfortable.

And I’m not just talking about your generic sexually-active, garden-variety, twenty-something, MTV-watching girls named Brittany. I’m talking about women like your Aunt Margaret, and your neighbor Pat and your local tenured, high school science teacher Ms. Eckhouse.

This is what your children’s bus driver Diane is really reading hidden behind that copy of Women’s World magazine while she waits for the kids to be released at three p.m. in the school parking lot. This is what Helene the Librarian is reading at the reference desk. Helene is not the kind of librarian who wears those sexy hairbuns and glasses. Helene is the kind of librarian who wears hairnets and orthopedic protective footwear.

But it’s not just grandmothers and soccer mommies reading these books. Forget about Fifty Shades of Grey. Call it Fifty Shades of Girls. Now every woman in the world is walking into the local bookstore and asking, “Hey, do you have that book.”

I’m sure this a great time to be a single man….But if you’re married like me, be scared…be very scared. Don’t leave your house without your wedding ring and a picture of your children stapled to your left cheek. Carry around one of those of those coffee mugs that declares you #1 Dad and introduce yourself to every strange woman as, “Hi. I’m married and I’m just trying to return home safely.”

If you don’t know already, the book’s three main character includes a virgin, a billionaire and BDSM. Contrary to my first thought BDSM is not an R&B men’s a-cappella group from the 90’s, but an acronym for bondage, discipline, dominance and submission….Yawn.

At the risk of writing a blog about a subject that I have not researched, I decided to peek into the pages of Grey.  I jumped right into the thick of it and turned to Chapter 7. After a lot of blabbering back and forth between the main characters it finally got sexual.

“Fuck my mouth,” said the virgin.

“Oh!” I thought. “This is exactly like every Penthouse Forum letter ever written.” And then I put the book down. This is nothing new.

If anything this silly little book proves one point that everyone already knows. Men and women have different needs.  Men need just the middle three paragraphs of any given one-page Penthouse Forum composition to do the job. While it takes women three books, over one thousand pages of character development and back history, weeks waiting for a sequel book release and a billionaire male lead character to do the same job.

Whatever floats your boat, ladies!  But do we have to talk about it?  “Fuck my mouth,” is that exact kind of dialogue that has had men deleting internet cookies for decades, and for decades to come. Now “fuck my mouth” is the same dialogue on the top of bestselling lists and living room coffee tables everywhere. Could you imagine the kinds of look two daddies might receive talking about the same sexual content during a child’s soccer game?

Call the cops! There’s a pervert on the sidelines! Register that man!

Women are drunk on these books and it is somehow holding a temporary residence in their minds. Fifty Shades of Grey is on the consciousness and on Facebook walls of women everywhere. And it’s also on their faces, too.

It’s scary out there, trust me. I work with the public every day and women are parading this new-found confidence out there daily. Somehow this book about submission has made women walking around with a dominant demeanor. Women are strutting, blushing, giggling and attacking little men like me everywhere. I feel like a worm on a fishhook unprotected in these cougarshark-infested waters.  

And I am scared. So please, please leave me alone. I am a happily married man. And trust me, I am no billionaire….Oh, and you are no virgin. So stop looking at me like that.

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I am Kevin Harris, a father of four and husband to one very understanding woman. And yes, we know exactly what’s causing all these pregnancies! My home life makes me smile and I like to share that laughter with others. Hopefully, you can find a bit of your home life reflecting in my pathetic blog. Like it. Seriously, you know you want to. Just click the damn thumb already. For more of my writing I suggest you visit my favorites page….http://mypatheticblog.tumblr.com/tagged/favorites

Do you have defined roles in your household? Is it clear who buys the milk? Is it clear who repairs the appliances?

The roles in my household are somewhat set, but they were never truly and clearly defined. Sometimes this leaves me lost like a child without his wubby. One day we just woke up after a dozen years living together with a handful of assumed roles. We never had that moment when we sat down and divvied up chores like some kind of Fantasy Baseball Draft. But perhaps we should have. 

In Round 1, he gets the full time job and she gets the grocery shopping. In Round 2, he gets the grill cooking and she gets the breastfeeding.  And the draft goes on.  He gets the lawn. She gets the laundry. He gets the heavy lifting. She gets the heavy pushing.  He gets the fixing matters for birthday presents.  And she gets the mixing batters for birthday cakes.

Last week I found myself alone in the kitchen like a child without his wubby again. I wanted to make myself a grilled-cheese sandwich before work, but discovered that the house was out of bread. And I didn’t know what the hell to do. So I did what I do best.  I threw a husband hissy fit wondering just how such a cataclysmic event like being out of bread could happen in this house! What kind of planetary alignment… what kind of plate-tectonic shift…. what kind of tsunami of horror could cause us not to have bread and every given moment?

What failed me most was not the lack of bread, but the feeling of prehistoric hunting-and-gathering-entitlement that flushed over me. I couldn’t help myself but to point my finger at the bread drawer and grunt like some caveman….URGH!….  NO…WONDER… BREAD!… Why was I out hunting for a paycheck if my wife not out gathering a loaf of bread?

Sure I wanted bread. But I also wanted to not feel like a Neanderthal.  I tried explaining this feeling to my wife, but it fell on deaf ears. Then later in the week I discovered this little fact: the Neanderthal was not an ancient ancestor of the modern human being, but a sub species that disappeared some 25,000 years ago. There are currently three theories for their extinction … 1). Human Conflict; 2) Human Interbreeding; 3) Volcanic Eruption. But I’d like to add a fourth possibility of their extinction. Perhaps they just ran out of bread and faded off to nothingness. Meanwhile the wives just ran off with some other, more enlightenment species.

My wife and I do this life well together. We are good teammates.  We escape days and weeks without  nagging and bickering. We support each other. We assist each other. But we also clash in our most precious moments of weakness. And then we bounce back.

After a decade together we have our roles. I work a full time gig….five out of seven days…every week…every year until the day I die.  I eat shit from the outside world in exchange for a weekly paycheck and medical benefits for my family. I accept this role, not for want but for need. And because I accept this role my wife allows me a little mental escape like blogging, running, drinking too much beer and an occasional playdate with my brother and my father.  

I admit however, that my wife’s role is blurred. She is the mother of four (five including myself). Some months my wife works a freelance fulltime job giving us a nice extra paycheck. Other months she has zero outside job responsibilities whatsoever and can afford this family her complete, undivided attention (I-phone planted firmly in hand notwithstanding). But I can confidently say that if there was an I-phone App for running a household then my wife would be in the conference room to perfect it.

And this led to a conversation between us. What is my wife’s mommy status?

   A) Stay-at-Home-Mom?

  B)   Housewife?

  C)  Homemaker?

  D)  Working-Mommy?

But wait. There’s one more option. And it’s a very obvious one.

  E)      All of the Above

My wife does just about everything around here with only an occasional finger lifted by myself. She balances the checkbook and the calendar. She balances our moments and our moods. While, I just manage to roll out of bed in time to take the kids to school.

I truly believe that if something terrible happened to me, she and the kids would get by just fine without me.  After all, the life insurance money could buy her a landscaper and eventually the children will learn how to drag the recycling bins to the curb.

On the flipside, if she would leave me early in this life I would be lost in a mountain of household chores, school lunches and medical well visits. Instead of doing laundry I would just buy new clothes.  This theory would work out just fine until her life insurance money dissipates. Eventually my house would get a visit from the Child Protective Services …followed by the crew of the local evening news.

TONIGHT at 11…FOUR CHILDREN REMOVED FROM A HOUSE OF FATHERLY FILFTH. AUTHORITIES BELIEVE THERE MIGHT BE MORE CHILDREN INSIDE BUT CAN’T SEEM TO SIFT THROUGH THE PILES OF DIRTY LAUNDRY AND BEER CANS. MORE ON THIS STORY FOLLOWING THE WEATHER!

It’s these kinds of self-reflective thoughts that allow me to realize just how good I have it. I know that I am a lucky man. But these thoughts escape me when I have my Neanderthal moments….When I have an important work meeting and my lucky underwear is not cleaned….When I come home from a long day of work and my dinner is not steaming on a plate…When I want to send my mother a card in the mail and there is not a stamp to be found…These are the moments when I revert to prehistoric thinking. Not by choice, but by instinct.  I know it’s not fair.

It’s these moments where I get lost in my own large Neanderthal cranium. It’s these moments when my bearded jawline spews out the dumbest homosapiens neaderthalensis-words.  It’s these moments when my large Pleistocene hands cannot grasp my own Cedar Street modern reality.  I can make fire, but sometimes I have trouble making sense of these modern times.

Insert prehistoric grunt here.

But I am not alone. When I have these moments I inevitably think back to my all-time favorite television moment. It was a Wonder Years episode that still kicks my heart’s ass every time I see it.  First aired in February 1989, episode 12 titled Pottery Will Get You Nowhere still has me shedding tears. It kicked my ass when I first saw it as a fourteen-year-old boy and still kicks my ass today.

The mom in the episode takes a pottery class and receives no support or encouragement from her family, especially not her husband Jack. The apex of the episode is when the parents have a fight in front of the children about the lack of Pepsi…and Jack shouts my all-time favorite television sentence…. “This family doesn’t need an astray for 200 people! This family needs Pepsi!”

Like most of my blogs this one is filled with more questions than answers. But I’m okay with that. Because I know questions are My Pathetic Blog’s specialty. If you want answers then go to Google.

However, if you have read this far then you shall be rewarded. Watch this clip. It will make your week. I promise.  I implore you to watch this entire five-minute segment here and challenge you not to feel something. I challenge not to find yourself somewhere of this segment.  I challenge you not to cry a little. Now enjoy…

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAGXdpXljm0