The Dive Bar Welcomes: tulpen

Oh, tulpen. My Fairy Blog Mother. I adore you so very very much. I wish I could write something pithy that would sing your praises, but.... I'm way too drunk right now, so.......

I love you. Also: awesome. Take it away tulpsters!!!

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There is much about being a guy that I get.

Boobs?  Big perky ones?  I totally get it.  They're fun to look at.  And if I owned a pair, I'd wanna play with them too.

Hot chicks?  Big boobs or not.  Pretty is pretty.  Ogle, gawk, stare all you want.  I'll join you!

Blow jobs?  Pretty sure Hairy Basketball is the actual official All American pastime.  I could be a fucking cheerleader.

I get it.  And won't begrudge a guy any of these things once he becomes a Dad.

But Al, there are some things, that I just don't understand.

Little things, in which I try to lead by example;

Like removing my dirty clothes and placing them in the hamper, not on the floor.

Like putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher, not the sink.

Like hanging my coat up in the closet, not on a kitchen chair.

These things are minor infractions, and go unvoiced and unpunished.

Other offenses, you do hear about.  Like when I come home from a crazy shift at work, at fucking midnight, and proceed to clean up a filthy kitchen, gather up and put away kids' juice cups, gather up and throw down the cellar stairs the kids' dirty clothes,  turn off EVERY light in the fucking house, turn down the heat and stomp up the stairs, waking you from your snoring stupor to;

"What?  I fell asleep.  I was gonna clean..."

I don't want to hear 'I was gonna'.  If you were 'gonna' you would have.  But you didn't. So I did.

Like I always have.

Like when I was pregnant with Owen and asked you, before I was too huge, to take over laundry duty, as lugging the baskets from the upstairs to the basement and back up again, was a bit much for my largeness and tiredness.

And I heard, with every load I lugged;

"I would have",  "I was gonna"

You didn't.

You didn't clean my car off that winter either, every morning, after I'd done the chore, and came huffing and puffing back into the house;

"I would have..."

I didn't think I should have had to ask.  I still don't.

And then there is the most hideous sin. About which you hear DAILY. 

Owen is in the bathtub and you speak to him:

"He can't hear you."

Watching TV at uncomfortable Deaf kid volume and you speak to him:

"He can't hear you."

In the car, music blaring, you speak to him:

"He. Can't. Fucking. Hear. You."

Seven years.  Almost.  Since we found out he was losing his hearing.  Six years since he went from a mild to a profound loss.

ASL dictionaries shoved in your face.  ASL websites shoved in your face.

Deaf kid saying "Huh" in your fucking face 100 times a day, because guess what Einstein?

He CAN'T FUCKING HEAR YOU.

I don't care if you're scared.  I don't care if it seems like a lot of work.  I don't give a fuck how much time you don't have to dedicate to learning your son's language.

You have time for killing hookers on Grand Theft Auto.

Time for Fantasy Fucking Football.

It is about fucking time to step up, be a man, and use your hands.

'Cause if I weren't such a horn dog?  You'd be using fantasies and your hands for a lot more than computer football and video games.

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