Bad Ass DadCast – Ep 4 – My Mom And Grandmother

Bad Ass DadCast – Ep 4 – My Mom And Grandmother

In this episode I’m joined by the two women who made me the person I am today, my mom and my grandmother. Without them I don’t exist, nor would I want to.

From left to right are my niece Cassi, my sister Stephanie, my grandmother Gloria Williams (aka Nena), my mom Gloria Mason, my son Frankie Four, and me, the luckiest man alive.
family
Family Over Everything. 

Check out the episode via:

iTunes – For subscription via podcast apps
This is the preferred method of listening. If you subscribe you’ll automatically get episodes when they’re released. Please subscribe and comment/rate on iTunes as it’ll make my podcast more visible to others. Thanks!

www.BadAssDad.com  – via the embedded player

www.BadAssDadCast.com – via the embedded player and for download

Stitcher Radio – For streaming on mobile/computer. They also have an app.

Player.FM – For streaming on mobile/computer. They also have an app.

OR LISTEN RIGHT HERE!

So please listen, subscribe on iTunes, and share with your friends. Feedback is appreciated via social media or email at (thebadassdad) (@) (gmail) (dotcom).

– See more at: http://badassdad.com/#sthash.8YXMSBk1.dpuf

Bad Ass DadCast – Ep 3 – Lisa Prather – Date Night

Bad Ass DadCast – Ep 3 – Lisa Prather – Date Night

In this episode you get to come along with me and Lisa Marie, aka The Wife, on our date night. We recorded our conversation in the car on the way to, and on the way home, from our date. Movies, burgers, cheesecake, and why date night is important to parents.

PratherCouple

Check out the episode via:

iTunes – For subscription via podcast apps
This is the preferred method of listening. If you subscribe you’ll automatically get episodes when they’re released. Please subscribe and comment/rate on iTunes as it’ll make my podcast more visible to others. Thanks!

www.BadAssDad.com  – via the embedded player

www.BadAssDadCast.com – via the embedded player and for download

Stitcher Radio – For streaming on mobile/computer. They also have an app.

Player.FM – For streaming on mobile/computer. They also have an app.

OR LISTEN RIGHT HERE!

So please listen, subscribe on iTunes, and share with your friends. Feedback is appreciated via social media or email at (thebadassdad) (@) (gmail) (dotcom).

Bad Ass DadCast Ep 2 – Jamie – Down Syndrome

Bad Ass DadCast Ep 2 – Jamie – Down Syndrome

My guest for episode 2 of the Bad Ass DadCast is my friend and neighbor, Jamie Lim Lee. Jamie and her husband Andrew are parents of two awesome kids, Shane and Shiloh.

Shane was born with Down Syndrome and Jamie shares their heartwarming story with honesty and humor.

meandshane

Make sure to check out the Club Twenty-One Walk-A-Thon we talk about at the end of the episode and join us on October 22, 2016 to walk with Team Sugar Shane. And all donations are greatly appreciated!

Check out the episode via:

iTunes – For subscription via podcast apps
This is the preferred method of listening. If you subscribe you’ll automatically get episodes when they’re released. Please subscribe and comment/rate on iTunes as it’ll make my podcast more visible to others. Thanks!

www.BadAssDad.com  – via the embedded player

www.BadAssDadCast.com – via the embedded player and for download

Stitcher Radio – For streaming on mobile/computer. They also have an app.

Player.FM – For streaming on mobile/computer. They also have an app.

OR LISTEN RIGHT HERE!

So please listen, subscribe on iTunes, and share with your friends. Feedback is appreciated via social media or email at (thebadassdad) (@) (gmail) (dotcom).

Just Released My New Podcast, Bad Ass DadCast

Just Released My New Podcast, Bad Ass DadCast

Today I released the first episode of my new parenting podcast, the Bad Ass DadCast, at www.badassdadcast.com. Actually, I released Episode 1 and Episode 0, the latter of which is actually just an intro to who I am and what the show is about. I encourage you to listen to the intro ep just as a primer but you could dive right into episode 1 if you prefer. This will be an ongoing series that explores parenting through conversations with other parents about their experiences. It’s just like other dad podcasts, or mom podcasts, only way better.

The plan is to post a new episode every Monday. It’ll be available the following places:

iTunes – For subscription via podcast apps
This is the preferred method of listening. If you subscribe you’ll automatically get episodes when they’re released. Please subscribe and comment/rate on iTunes as it’ll make my podcast more visible to others. Thanks!

www.BadAssDad.com  – via the embedded player

www.BadAssDadCast.com – via the embedded player and for download

Stitcher Radio – For streaming on mobile/computer. They also have an app.

Player.FM – For streaming on mobile/computer. They also have an app.

EPISODE 0 – The Intro

EPISODE 1 – Jeff Baietto

So please listen, subscribe on iTunes, and share with your friends. Feedback is appreciated via social media or email at (thebadassdad) (@) (gmail) (dotcom).

bafdaddy

My Co-Sleeping Number Is Four

My Co-Sleeping Number Is Four

Sleep is a huge waste of my time. Not everyone’s time, mind you, but certainly mine. Spending 1/3 of my life unconscious deprives me of valuable hours that I could spend being awesome. In fact, you should be just as upset that sleep is depriving you of more me. On the other hand, there are plenty of people who should sleep more than they already are, because their being awake isn’t benefitting any of us. Regardless of all that we, as humans, require a considerable amount of sleep to function at our highest level and to be generally healthy. As such, I make sure I get a significant number of hours in every night.

Most parents will tell you that having a baby means giving up sleep for anywhere between 6 months and 23 years. My wife and I gamed the system early on with a simple rotating feeding schedule, battery powered swing, and co-sleeping. From the first week we were both getting at least 5-6 consecutive hours plus additional hours after that. In general, we felt pretty well rested for being the parents of a newborn. It wasn’t long before we phased out the feeding schedule and, shortly thereafter, the swing. Notice that I didn’t mention the co-sleeping.

Co-sleeping

Frankie Four is just about to turn 18 months old and has slept every night of his life in bed with us. Every night. All of them. Granted, I’ve traveled a bit for work so some of the nights were just he and Lisa, but he’s always slept with one of us.

co-sleeping

He’s had a crib since birth and has been asleep in it, but only for a few daytime naps, never at night. It was so underused that we converted it to a toddler bed early just so he could crawl in and out of it for fun. Today, it sits in our bedroom, acting as a holding pen for stuffed animals, spare blankets, and sometimes clean laundry that goes unfolded for days so my wife better get her ass in gear because it’s tough to stay on top of household chores when you have a toddler.

We didn’t intend to co-sleep for the length of time or in the manner that we did/still do. In fact, we bought a co-sleeper that attached to our bed so Lisa could breast feed then roll our fat little baby back into his own space. Frankie wasn’t having it. As far as he was concerned, our space was his space. I have no idea where he got that sense of entitlement. From day one, unless he was in the swing, he’d only sleep on or adjacent to us. Most of the time he slept with his lips attached to Lisa’s boob, which I think we can all agree is the best way to sleep. Or be awake, for that matter.  Take that Ambien.

When he’s not attached to the boob he finds some position that doesn’t inhibit my comfort or sleep at all. He’s a very considerate little guy.

co-sleeping

co-sleepingMaking sure mommy doesn’t breathe in any  of that harmful oxygen while she sleeps.

Co-sleeping gets mixed reviews in the parenting world which I totally understand. Before we were forced into embraced it, I considered it some hippie bullshit that women who didn’t shave their pits and named their kid Featherbreeze did. Being lumped in with those yurt dwelling shroom eaters horrified me, but once I burned all of the dreamcatchers hanging in that imagined world, I bought in. Ever since, having Frankie Four in bed with us has been one of the most gratifying aspects of fatherhood. And today I am the greatest at co-sleeping just as I am the greatest at all other aspects of parenting. As such, I’ve listed 5 of the potential problems that can arise from sharing a bed with your child, along with my solutions. However, because you’re not me, you’ll probably screw it up and damage your kid, so I take no legal or moral responsibility for anything you do.

1- BED SHARING WITH AN INFANT IS DANGEROUS
Experts say not to share a bed with an infant if you are fat, drink, smoke, take sedatives, have long hair, use blankets or pillows or sheets or a mattress, shit yourself at night, light fires in bed, sleep with a live alligator, watch Downton Abbey, create vision boards, think Trump “makes a lot of sense”, live in a home that had wheels but is now on cinderblocks, have too many sister-wives, think Tupac is alive, have a sword attached to the headboard, watch WWE, or are just plain stupid. Also, don’t sleep with an infant in your bed. Just don’t. Yes, I did. No, you shouldn’t.

co-sleepingNever leave your child in a bed unsupervised.

2- NO MORE SEX
You realize that sex is what got you in this predicament in the first place, right? Fine, if you want to continue playing Russian roulette with your finances/freedom/sleep/youth, read on. Your child is sleeping in your bed, so now you just have to relocate your shenanigans to other areas of your home. You can make the beast with two backs on the crunchy bed of Cheerios and crackers he’s gingerly placed on your sofa. Perhaps a steamy encounter on the kitchen counter between the leftover bowl of dried noodles she refused to eat and the half chewed Fig Newton she spit out because even toddler’s know that Fig Newton’s are fucking gross. Maybe a romantic interlude in front of the fireplace on a sticky, juice soaked rug where your spine will be tickled by the soft kiss of Lego pieces and one broken toy truck. There are countless places where you can throw down while your kid drools all over your pillow. Personally, by the time night rolls around, my version of “sex” is staying awake long enough to watch one show on the iPad. So F4 sleeping like a giant dash mark between us isn’t infringing on my action. My peak energy level/libido is early afternoon so if homeboy naps we’re in flagrante delicto somewhere in the house. If you want to use the bed to boink during the day, find another comfortable spot for your kid to nap. Below are some suitable options:

baby in a box

baby carrier

baby asleep on tricycle

baby asleep with eggs

bread pillow

co-sleeping

3- BED SHARING WITH A TODDLER IS DANGEROUS
Whereas sharing your bed with an infant is dangerous to them, bed sharing with a toddler is dangerous to you. A spinning back fist to the face is bad enough, but when your son is genetically gifted with powerful legs because he has your genes, it’s the feet you have to fear. I’ve been kicked in both eyes, the nose, both ears, the temple, the forehead, the throat, and the testicles, all multiple times. My beloved boy likes to sleep sideways across the bed, with his head near his mother, for obvious reasons (See: Boobs), and his feet near me. Asleep or awake, he kicks his feet like a bull trying to buck off a cowboy with a rope tied around his nuts. On more than one occasion I thought I had a broken nose. There are only two solutions to this problem. Solution 1 is to wear a hockey mask or one of those beekeeper hoods that fencers wear. Solution 2 is to stop being a pussy. If you can’t take a punch or a kick from a toddler then you’re not a man. If you’re a woman, you’re already not a man but now you’re even less of a man.

4- YOU WON’T BE FORCED GET TO CUDDLE
Woman, I’m sorry to say that there’s no solution to this particular problem.
Men, you’re welcome.

5- YOU’LL GET WOKEN UP EARLY/THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT
Early – People who sleep in are lazy. By the time my son wakes up I’ve already worked out, showered, perfected my hair game for the day, checked my email, and still had 10 spare minutes to flex in the mirror. If you sleep in you don’t deserve to sleep in.

Throughout The Night – 60 ounces of coffee every day, along with a gallon of water and a 46 year old prostate, means I pee every half hour all night long. My son complains that I wake him up too many times. If you sleep normally, and so does your kid, you’ll be fine. Otherwise the two of you can stay up together for fun time! Mommy will love that.

co-sleeping

Look, there’s lists on lists of reasons that people don’t co-sleep and I support their right to not care about their children as much as I care about mine. The fact is, I love co-sleeping. I’m a first time, and decidedly “one-and-done”, dad. In the immortal words of Aerosmith, I “don’t wanna miss a thing“. Having Frankie fall asleep with his head on my chest, snuggle up to me in the middle of the night, and smile at me when he opens his eyes in the morning, are some of my favorite moments.

co-sleeping

I know his childhood won’t last forever so I’m embracing every opportunity to connect, and just be with him. One day he’ll be too big to want to give me 10 kisses goodnight, or cuddle, or even sleep in our bed. After some emotional adjustment, I’ll embrace that stage too. But for now I’m going to enjoy the fact that I love my boy so much that comfort, sleep, and an unbroken nose don’t compare to me being allowed to doze off with him every night and wake up with him every day.

co-sleeping

And how could you pass up witnessing the childlike wonder as your little one peacefully watches the sun come up out the window?

co-sleeping

But really, this sums up co-sleeping better than any words.

co-sleeping

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Here We Go Sport

Here We Go Sport

I just did something I swore I’d never, under any circumstances, do once I had a child. It’s difficult to reconcile that I’ve gone against my principles and risked all that I hold dear, gambling both my and my childs well being.

I signed my son up for soccer.

There’s a list of sports I want to kill and soccer holds a place firmly in the top 5 along with golf, tennis, lacrosse,  and golf. Yes, golf is listed twice because I harbor double the disdain for this so-called “sport”. It’s a skill, certainly, but not a sport. At least tennis and lacrosse require some level of physical fitness. You can play golf if you have one eye, emphysema, or even a wooden peg leg. Not to mention the fact that watching it is like staring into an empty abyss for all of eternity, only not as exciting.

Soccer held a similar position in my heart up until a few months ago. It was not Cristian Ronaldo or Lionel Messi that swayed me. Nor was it the great and glorious god of hairstyles that I worship, David Beckham. It was my one year old son himself, Frankie Four. See, I’d purchased F4 a little soccer ball on a whim one day. Not because I wanted him to play soccer, far from it, but because the ball itself was more durable than the other balls on sale for $4.99. My vehement opposition to soccer is overshadowed only by my frugality. I hate soccer but I still want to kick it in its cheap balls. Anyway, Frankie Four and I were outside playing the day before his first birthday. The ball was just sitting there when he walked up and kicked it. I figured it was an accident, that he’d been walking toward it and his foot hit before he had a chance to pick it up. Then he kicked it again. My son is only one but he’s sharp, so I doubted that the second time was inadvertent. Just to be sure, I pulled out the trusty phone and nudged the ball with my foot. Seconds later—

Boo ya! And ever since that first flurry of kicks, roughly 3 months ago, he’s constantly dribbling the soccer ball. Dribbling. Is that what it’s called? I know that’s what you call bouncing a basketball to move it down court, but is it the same for soccer? I could Google it but I’m terrified that soccer related ads will start showing up in my email and newsfeed. I’d rather Google “animal with largest testicles” or “is human pancreas edible” or “am I secretly a woman trapped in a mans body?’ than have soccer related marketing target me. That’s my level of disdain for soccer.

You’re probably wondering why I hate soccer worse than Donald Trump hates well, everyone. First off, I played one season of soccer back in elementary school and I sucked at it. I know, I know, it’s hard to believe there was ever anything at which I did not excel. That should be proof enough that soccer is a ridiculous activity. If I wasn’t good at it then, by default, it must actually be the thing itself that sucks, because look at me. Aside of  the traumatic childhood experience of participating in that horror show of a sport, it’s fucking boring. Painfully boring. Granted, it’s not “golf boring”, but it’s definitely a snooze fest to the nth degree. Proof is in the goals. The average number of goals in most World Cup matches is less than 3. Remember, we’re talking about a 90 minute game. That means you’re lucky if you see one goal every half hour. In between those goals you’re watching 22 people run toward a ball. One of those 22 people kicks the ball really far down a field roughly the size of Rhode Island. Then, all 22 people turn and run after the ball. Whoever gets there first kicks it back in the opposite direction and they all turn the other way and run. In the unlikely event that someone kicks the ball into the opposing teams net, a man, always from a foreign country, screams “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!” then immediately dies of surprise that someone scored. His scream is roughly 19 minutes long and is easily the most exciting part of the game. Unfortunately, just after he dies, the 22 people go back to playing soccer.

To make matters worse, I’m going to have to pretend to enjoy soccer. My son is only 15 months old so there aren’t a lot of sports he can play. I can’t sign him up for Brazilian Jiu Jitsu or wrestling because it’s too early for the other toddlers to get choked out or suplexed. I considered swimming but that breast milk gut he’s rocking is not a good look in a Speedo. I’m going to discourage him from football because I prefer to avoid brain damage. And don’t start lecturing me about how MMA fighters can get brain damage because I’ll head kick you. When he’s ready to fight, he’ll fight.

One aspect of this that I do enjoy is that Frankie Four is going to start the soccer program at exactly 16 months old, to the day. The age range is 18-26 months for the starter program so he’ll be one of, if not the youngest kid on the field. If he’s good, I can brag about how advanced he is for his age. If he sucks (like I did), I can explain it away because he started so young. Either way, I win.

If I take a step back, and pretend that I’ve signed him up for something that’s not soccer, I’m really excited. It’s Four’s first group activity other than a sign language and sing along class that I never had the opportunity to attend. The soccer “league” is on Saturday mornings, right in our neighborhood, so that gets to be a daddy activity. I’m looking forward to seeing him interact with other kids in an “organized” manner and introduce him to being a team player. Although most of the sports I personally enjoy participating in and watching are solo endeavors, I understand the value of the team structure. Mostly I’m just enamored of the idea that this will be the first of many activities throughout his life where I can be there to cheer him on. Watching him school the other toddlers enjoy himself while learning valuable life lessons will be an immense source of joy for me. Whenever I took on a sport as a child my dad was always there and it was a great bonding experience. I look forward to sharing the same experiences with my son.

At the end of the day, I don’t care that he likes sports as long as he embraces physical activities and fitness. But if he does like sports, and wants to play, I’ll be on the sidelines 100% of the time, cheering him on, encouraging him, congratulating him for wins, consoling him for defeats, and always reminding him that I am his biggest fan.

Even if he loves to play soccer.

Although I’d prefer baseball.

Or powerlifting.

Bad Ass Dad

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10 Things I Learned In My First Year As A Dad

10 Things I Learned In My First Year As A Dad

I just celebrated my son’s first birthday and spent time reflecting on some of what I’ve learned in the last year.

birthdaybanner

One of the first things I realized is that the birth of your child is the single greatest experience that exists. I’m not claiming that everyone should have a child, or that you’re wrong if you don’t want them. Most of you shouldn’t. Have them, that is, because look at you. I’m simply saying that the actual birth of a human being, that you created, is impossible to equal with any other experience aside of possibly being born yourself. The only difference is that you probably don’t remember your own birth unless you have a really good memory.

That said, the subsequent raising of your child might suck. You might resent having given up your old life in order to raise your child. You could be a shitty parent. You could even have an ugly, stupid kid. All valid reasons for you to not risk having one. I, on the other hand, was never concerned about those things. Rather than give up my old life, I just integrated my son into it. Be a shitty parent? Given that I excel at everything, not a problem. And having an ugly and/or stupid kid? He’s got my genetics so that’s a scientific impossibility.

birthday

The last year has been more rewarding for my son than I ever could have anticipated. As the undisputed greatest parent that’s ever lived, my sense of accomplishment for raising a perfect child is huge, and deservedly so. I mean, there are a lot of great parents out there so imagine how I must feel being considerably better than all of them. It’s truly humbling to outshine the rest of the world.

blueeyes

My son, Frankie Four, is just like me, exceptional. Beautiful blue eyes. Check. Winning smile. Check. Superior intellect, charming personality, and smelly poo poo’s. Check, check, and check. Here we are, face to face, a couple of silver spoons.

love

Enough nonsense. Here are 10 things I really learned in my first year as a dad.

1) Nothing does, or ever has, come close to making me feel the way I feel when my son smiles at me. When he looks up with that little face and breaks into a grin, which happens about every 3 minutes, the rest of the world ceases to exist.

balls

2) As a proud germaphobe I am wholly disgusted at the idea of most people, except for perhaps my wife, sharing a beverage with me or taking a bite of my food. Because you people are gross. However, Frankie Four can grab food with his filthy little hand, drop it on the floor, pick it back up, put it in his mouth, partially chew it and cover it in slobber, spit it back into his filthy little hand, then hold his hand out for me to eat it. Whatever it is tastes better than than the best steak and lobster I’ve ever had.

food

3) My wife is way more bad ass than I am. She takes care of our son, takes care of me, takes care of the house, and works (check out her work at www.makeupartist411.com). And she complains uh, never. In fact, she thanks me on a daily basis. Not going to write any more about her. She requires her own post, not an entry on this one.

mommy

IMG_0756

4) Having a child makes me appreciate my parents and grandparents even more than I already did. They didn’t have it easy and, under the circumstances, did an excellent job. Whenever I’m unsure of what to do as a parent I just love my son like they loved me and I know it’s exactly the right thing.

family1

family2

5) I want to do things that don’t involve my son approximately 10% of the time, or less. Don’t get me wrong, I like to get away for “grownup time”. But after a very brief respite from the responsibility of parenting, I want to be with my kid. When I’m not with him, I’m generally thinking about him.

backpack

6) Watching your child grow up is both awesome and heartbreaking. As much as I want him to advance quickly so I can post video of him reading at 18 months, I also want him to continue babbling unintelligibly forever. Every new stage is adorable and fills me with pride but makes me miss the stage that just ended. That’s another reason I spend virtually all of my free time with him. I don’t want to miss any of it.

lift

7)  I spent much of my life being, or trying to be, the center of attention. Now I prefer to direct my attention toward my son and your attention well, doesn’t matter so much. That said, keep paying attention to me because you deserve to treat yourself.

bath

8) Frankie Four has me at about 50/50 on wanting another kid. On one hand, he’s so incredible that it’s hard to fathom not doing it again. On the other hand, I feel like it’s a huge risk to hope the next kid turns out to be like him. Everyone says that you’ll love the second one just as much, even if they’re different.

No, I won’t.

chair

9) Watching Four interact with other kids is one of my favorite parts of being a parent. It’s especially great when he’s playing with the children of my friends, as it gives our bond of friendship an additional layer. My favorite play dates are those with Bodhi, the son of my good friends Jeff & Angeline. Jeff and I are the same age, and our sons are only around one month apart. Witnessing them grow side-by-side makes me hope that they develop a friendship that lasts forever.

bff1

bff2

bff3

bff4

bff5

10) Although I understood it even before my son came into this world, the moment he was born was when I learned the most valuable lesson of all—that I was meant to be a dad. I will be forever grateful to my wife Lisa, and my son Frankie, for making me the happiest dad on earth.

And a bonus lesson—my son kills the facial expression game.

base2

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Grandparents

Grandparents

As a child, I spent a great deal of time at my grandparents house. I’m not sure there was ever a place where I felt more warmth and comfort than I did when I was there. It wasn’t the actual house, but my grandparents themselves who created that feeling. Even in my adult life, a visit to them takes me back to being a kid, where I am happy, content, and relaxed beyond all measure.

The home they lived in through most of my childhood was three floors. The top floor consisted of a bedroom, a bathroom, my grandfather’s workshop, which was off limits, and an office I could only describe as WSJ’d. Stacked against the walls, from floor to ceiling, were copies of the Wall Street Journal, a financial newspaper that he treated as if they were the holy scrolls. Throughout most of my life I thought he was a little crazy, spending so much time with his nose in a newspaper, the TV tuned in to some stock market show, ticker endlessly marching across the bottom of the screen. It wasn’t until much later, when I stood in front of his massive new house in Florida that I realized what he’d done. My grandfather had worked hard, saved, studied the markets, saved, learned, saved, invested, and saved some more, all to bring his lifelong dream to fruition. This beautiful, custom designed home wasn’t simply a mansion, it was the culmination of eighty plus years of tireless effort, dedication, and discipline. To think of it in those terms is awe inspiring.

Grandparents House

The house that they lived in when I was a boy would fit ten times over in their current one, but I loved it. It was my home, even though I didn’t live there full time, because it was the only consistent place in my life. My mom, a single parent, had to move us almost every year in order to find something affordable, so none of the apartments or houses she rented ever meant anything to me. But my grandparent’s house did. To this day, say the word “home” and I think of that house.

It was actually two lots, one with the house on it and one that was just a giant backyard. The backyard was separated from the house by a driveway that ran from their street, Arnett Lane, down the side of the house, and looped back around to Wilson Lane, the main road. That yard seemed so massive to me, as if it was another continent. If you were facing it, off to the right was an area that was raised, and for many years my grandfather had rabbit cages back there. I know there were multiple rabbits but I only remember one, an albino rabbit named Pinky. I also have a vague memory of tasting rabbit at some point which leads me to believe that they weren’t being kept as pets. He also kept a beehive which provided fresh honey, but that memory is more vague, probably because I was scared of bees.

The center of the yard was just a wide open space that was glorious to play in but horrifying when I reached lawn mowing age. Toward the back of that area grew a lot of foliage that I believe was over a septic tank. Little did I know that all of our family poo was facilitating the growth of massive weeds. My grandparents also had a compost pile where they’d dump old food rinds and such, I’m assuming in order to fertilize the grounds. My childhood paradise was built on a septic tank and compost, yet never smelled anything but perfect to me. Off to the far end, near the main road, were a number of trees, my favorite of which was a cherry tree. I can recall eating them directly off of the tree and even now, whenever I have a cherry, I close my eyes and I’m a child standing in that back yard on a hot summer day.

The bottom floor of the house had two sides to it. One was the typical laundry and storage area that you might find in any old basement. The only thing that was out of place there was a small table in the corner that always had an open appointment book on it. Hanging on the wall to the left of it was a telephone and next to that was a door that entered into my grandfather’s music studio. I didn’t enter that part of the house very often and, when I did, was usually a little nervous. As he was a music teacher, I understood that this was where my grandfather conducted business and trained his students to play piano, guitar, and his favorite, the accordion.

Grandad accordian

On a few occasions, throughout my childhood, I was one of the students, but likely the worst one he had. I was never musically inclined and didn’t grasp the piano or guitar very well when he tried to teach me. On top of that, I never ever wanted to practice. To this day one of my biggest regrets in life is that I didn’t take advantage of what I had right in front of me, a teacher who was willing to give me lessons for free. When I did take them, I first started on piano lessons but soon wanted to be a rock star, and moved on to guitar lessons. Ironic that today I’d love nothing more than to be able to play the piano. I often think of taking lessons but having anyone other than my grandfather teach me holds little appeal. If not learning from him, I’d rather not learn at all. So maybe it’s not so much that I want to be able to play the piano. Maybe it’s that I want to play and turn to whoever is listening and say, “My grandfather taught me that.” Lucky for me, he taught me plenty of other great lessons in life. So that fact that I wasn’t smart enough to learn music from him is the only thing I missed out on.

Allow me to digress for a moment and actually introduce my grandparents. Although I refer to them as my grandmother and grandfather, they are actually Nena (pronounced nee-naw)…

grandmother

and Grandaddy.

grandfather

I am 40 years old and I call them by those names to this very day. The only thing I modify is to sometimes call my grandfather Grandad instead of Grandaddy, but only because it feels almost too childlike to say the word “daddy” out loud, in any context or iteration. However I always think of him as Grandaddy in my mind. Nena always has been, and forever will be, Nena. Strangely, I don’t feel like a child when I say her name in spite of that fact of it is clearly a name designed for a baby to say. I suppose it makes sense though. When I speak to, or about, my grandfather I try to be a man. He is a man. I don’t ever want to appear to be a child to him. I need his respect in order to feel like I am a man. Nena, however, is a different story. I am a child when she’s near. I am the same little boy she always nurtured, took care of, and comforted. I don’t want that to change, ever. Don’t get me wrong, I want her to be proud of my grown up accomplishments, and I require her approval, but I still want her to take care of me as if I were a small child. I need her to always be my Nena. And she always is, no matter how old I get. Now that you know them by their proper names, let’s get back on track.

grandparents

The middle floor of Nena and Grandaddy’s house was the main living area. It had both a living and dining room, neither of which was used much, along with an eat-in kitchen that was in constant use. When I was there it seemed that Nena was cooking 95% of the time and, when she wasn’t, something was going on in the kitchen. She cut my hair in that kitchen, made me costumes for school, helped me with painting or other arts and crafts, even taught me to cook some things. I have untold numbers of great memories from spending time with Nena in that kitchen, and yet it holds one horrible memory for me as well.

Lima beans.

For some reason, my grandparents seemed to have lima beans pretty regularly and, although I loved most vegetables as a kid, I hated lima beans. To this day I can barely gag down those dry, disgusting tasting legumes. Why anyone eats them is beyond me. Yet eat them they did and I was forced to eat them as well. As much love as those people showed me, somewhere deep down I think they used lima beans to punish me for everything I ever did wrong. One day I am going to figure out a way to pay them back for the lima bean torture. I just have to determine what unspeakable act is as bad as those beans. Admittedly, the lima trauma was but a small fraction of the time I spent in that house and clearly I survived, but I still have nightmares. Lima beans.

My favorite time in my grandparents house was after school. I’d come home, exhausted and hungry, and instantly any care I had in the world was removed. In my grandparent’s bedroom, my grandfather had a lazy boy chair that sat beside a huge picture window and faced their television. I’d climb into that big, comfy chair and recline it all the way back. Nena would put the TV on whatever I wanted to watch and head to the kitchen to make my favorite afternoon snack of sliced apples and peanut butter. Beneath me, coming up through the floor, was music, or attempts at music, created by my grandfather and the student he was teaching. It was so soothing, the food lovingly prepared by Nena and the sound of music, Grandaddy imparting his lessons. If there are moments in my life I could define as bliss, the times I spent in that chair would be them.

This story is simple, and doesn’t begin to express the complexity of my childhood or what my grandparents mean to me. I could write thousands of pages filled with stories about Nena helping teach me to paint, or encouraging the creativity that helped define who I am today, or just taking care of me, something she’s done my entire life. Or about Grandaddy, also known as “The Good Grandaddy”, telling me my all time favorite story about how he was the first person to see me at the hospital when I was born. Instead I will leave you with just this brief description of a piece of my life that I remember as vividly as if it were yesterday. I would write more, but I don’t have the words to express how iconic these two people are in my mind, and in my heart. Nena and Grandaddy are the most amazing grandparents any kid could ever hope to have, and I was lucky enough to have them as mine. Every day I think of them, every day I am thankful for them, and every day I love them more. They are my grandparents.

—–

I wrote that at the end of February 2011, exactly four years before my son was born. I am so fortunate that he has been able to spend time with them and experience the same love I have my entire life. Because their grandchildren have children, they now have the title of Great-Grandparents, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s what they’ve been since the day I was born.

grandparents

Our First Family Holiday In Photos— And Breastfeeding!

Our First Family Holiday In Photos— And Breastfeeding!

This is a dual purpose photo post that will both recap Four’s first holiday with my family and throw public breastfeeding pics in the faces of people who were angry at my last post. Joy to the world!

Airport BoobWe started the holiday trip off right with our rendition of Little Town Of Breast-Ahem at the airport. I know they hold more than 3.5 ounces of liquid, so how did she sneak them past the crack TSA team at security?

MARYLAND

Bad Ass Dad and sonMe and Frankie Four landed in Maryland and were immediately accosted by some woman (who may or may not be his mother and my wife) because of our winning smiles. We can’t help it if we pretty.

Mixed race familyI am an equal opportunity uncle and demand racial diversity in my family. It was very difficult for me to accept that my son turned out to be Caucasian but I love him anyway. Appearing in this photo from upper left to right is my sister, my wife, my nephew, my mom holding my disturbingly cracker-ish son, and my niece.

Bad Ass Dad wifeMy gorgeous California wife dressed in a New York outfit in the Maryland woods. This was what she was wearing when she was last seen so if you—just kidding. The ground was way too hard to dig a hole that day.

Bad Ass DadKevin and I have been friends for 25 years. You think he’d have offered me some of his sperm so that my kid had a little melanin.

Bad Ass DadScott and I have been friends for over 30 years and it looks a lot like he donated his sperm given Four’s cheeks.

NORTH CAROLINA

Bad Ass Dad and sonsFranklin Nathaniel Prather’s 2, 3, and 4. One of them believes that he’s the master of the universe and so do the other two.

prather thanksgivingThis is a happy photo of Four’s first Thanksgiving and definitely not a family that’s being forced to pretend that everything is fine by armed home invaders. (Help us)

grandparentsPop, Four, and GeeBee, not to be confused with Bel Biv Devoe.

bad ass dad hairThe wind messed up my hair so I was forced to brutally murder the wind. Problem solved.

Bad Ass  Dad familyWould it be egotistical of me to caption this, “Best Looking Family That Ever Lived”?
Yes?
Ok, good.

Bad Ass Dad friendsWhen my friend Larry died he left behind a beautiful family who I finally got to introduce to Four. Seeing his kids playing with my son was one of the highlights of my year. His twins were asleep by the time we actually took a pic.

FLORIDA

Bad Ass DadOn the flight to Florida our son crawled into the arms of a strange Asian woman named Linn. That was literally the only thing she said that we could understand.

Bad Ass DadHere is Four in a rickshaw and not because the last picture was of him and an Asian woman. Don’t be such a racist. But I think we can all agree that one of them is probably a terrible driver.

Bad Ass DadFour with Nena, his great-grandmother and the reason we were in Florida.

Baby in a suitcaseI’m not saying you should pack your baby in a suitcase,
I’m just saying it might make the flight more peaceful.

Bad Ass Dad breastfeedingI promised breastfeeding pics so here’s one that, unfortunately, did not take place in public. But don’t worry, they’re coming!

Bad Ass DadThis is my nephew Chris showing off his first tattoo as well as a small white child.

Bad Ass DadWe spent a few days at the beach trying to catch our tans up with my niece Cassi. We failed.

Bad Ass DadI don’t know if you’ve ever checked the caloric content of sand but, given how much of it he’s eaten and how his body looks, I’d say it’s fattening.

Bad Ass DadSHART! Wait, I mean SHARK! No, it was a shart.

Bad Ass DadOnly one of the best days of my life, no big deal.

Bad Ass DadThe #1 beach in America according to someone who ranks beaches. In America. But after Siesta Key, you need a…

Bad Ass DadA siesta—while being watched by toy creepers.

Bad Ass Dad breastfeedingAfter the nap, a little X-mas shopping with St. Nipple-ous.

Bad Ass DadThe next day we took the family to a state park where not a single one of us got eaten by an alligator or encountered someone invoking the ‘Stand Your Ground’ law. You’re slipping, Florida.

Bad Ass Dad breastfeedingWe also took a little boat ride in the 90 degree weather. I’m clearly upset with Lisa for not covering our son in something that would overheat him to death just so she could protect the other people on the boat from her semi-visible boob.
(I’m on a boob, bitch!)

Bad Ass DadFour is having the time of his life. Wheeeeeeeee!

Bad Ass DadFour’s enthusiasm for life was reinvigorated when we all went to Universal Studios!

Bad Ass DadMommy helps Four wake up. SURPRISE!

Bad Ass DadHe poses for the picture or he gets the hose again.

Bad Ass Dad breastfeedingMy wife breastfeeding my son, uncovered,
while walking with my mom at Universal Studios in Florida. Bad Ass women.

Bad Ass DadAnd the defining image from our trip. The family.
From L to R:
Frankie Four (my son)
Lisa (my wife)
Gloria (my mom)
Cassi (my niece)
Stephanie (my sister)
Chris (my nephew)
Gloria aka “Nena” (my grandmother)

…and the luckiest guy on earth, me.

Breastfeeding In Public Is Offensive

Breastfeeding In Public Is Offensive

UPDATE: The mom whose post I’m responding to here edited her piece dramatically after what I can only assume was the outpouring of support for my blog. So, lest you think that what I wrote below is an overreaction to her seemingly milder post, here is a link to a screenshot of her original post To The Mom Who Refuses To Put A Cover On. (If the image appears small just click on it to expand to full, readable size). Then come back to read my post below which is unedited, because I stand behind every word.

MY ORIGINAL POST

That’s the premise behind a recent post by a mom blogger titled, To The Mom Who Refuses To Put A Cover On. In her piece she responds to a post by a mom who doesn’t cover, chastising her along with all moms who do that. She also posts a photo of the non-covering mom which I view as a distasteful public shaming. I suggest you read her post prior to reading mine because you’ll enjoy mine much more if you’re drunk with rage, as I am. I’ll wait.

Sorry, I should have warned you that she featured a veiny, milk-bloated, almost-but-not-totally-naked boob photo in her post. I hope none of you men broke your screen trying to dive into your computer or worse, your phone, hoping to dislodge that infant so you could slurp slurp slurp on that dribbly nipple. Forget the men, that image is enough to turn any — nay, every, woman into a lesbian. Boobs can do that. No they can. It happens every day. Google that shit.

Seriously, how do I even address her post without a ridicule and profanity laden rant?

Let me start by disclosing that my wife breast feeds anytime and anywhere my son expresses hunger or irritability, and she doesn’t cover. For a few weeks after he was born she covered, but I discouraged her from doing so. That is to say, I encouraged her to breast feed publicly, with no cover. I know it’s crazy, telling my wife to bare her breast for all the lustful men and boys who might stare at her. Worse, it would put her at risk of causing a riotous mass masturbatory session to break out in the middle of the mall. What other recourse does a man have if he sees some of a breast that’s only partially covered by a baby?

Breast Feeding

My GOD woman, we’re at the mall! During Christmas season! People who don’t understand the concept of Amazon Prime are here shopping for presents! And you’re *gasp* feeding your child without smothering him half to death under a blanket. Do you think The Virgin Mary just whipped out her lady lumps in the manger and fed baby Jesus in front of three lecherous wise men? Of course she didn’t. Because the lord made her breasts mostly to attract men and also because virgins that have babies are make-believe. That story is part of a broader fictional narrative created by man.

Clearly my wife has no shame. And for good reason, because a woman’s breast is not cause for shame, covered or not. In fact, a woman’s breast is a magical thing because it provides nourishment for a child in a way that nothing else can (via breastmilk or by generating undocumented income in the form of countless one dollar bills). Breast milk is unfathomably superior to formula and benefits both mother and child. Yes, I know that the mom blogger’s post isn’t anti-breastfeeding. It’s just that the upside of breast milk warrants mentioning, because it’s the only aspect of the breastfeeding conversation that needs to be mentioned by anyone. Long before our son was born we agreed that he’d be breastfed. We also agreed that he wouldn’t be an anchor that forced us to stay at home for months. From his first week we were taking him out of the house anywhere we needed or wanted to go. Obviously my wife had to feed him so she bought one of those covers that’s easy and convenient to use — unless you forget it at home, leave it in the car, or want your baby to stop crying quickly by putting him on your breast without fumbling with some dumbass cloth pretzel. If you don’t have the cover then you can just utilize any jacket or baby blanket you happen to have nearby. Who cares if your baby’s head is sweating like a pig in a fleece pullover because it’s hotter than Afghanistan in August under there. The important thing is that a stranger not be forced to glimpse some of your breast. Or, the important thing might be for people to mind their own fucking business and look elsewhere if they don’t like it.

The attempts at covering frustrated my wife much of the time, which in turn frustrated me. I’d get annoyed and start lecturing her about how she shouldn’t be such a prude and just feed the goddamn baby, because I’m a kind, sensitive man who communicates in a mature and healthy way. Eventually, she overcame her self-consciousness and unleashed her evil nipples on all of mankind, much to my delight. At that point it was game on, and the tata’s were boldly displayed anywhere we went.

breastfeedingAt sushi enjoying the Nipple Hand Roll.

breastfeedingIn the Navy, you can sail the seven seas,
In the Navy, you can suck on mom’s tit-tees.

breastfeedingOn a hike, enjoying lunch with mommy and daddy.
Hey, at least her other boob is covered.

Now that I’ve expressed my sarcasm and disdain to an appropriate degree, along with showcasing my wife’s naked boobs for all the world to see, allow me to address some specific quotes from the anti-uncovered breastfeeding blog.

“I stumbled across an article of a woman breastfeeding her baby in public without a cover. Like, full on bare-breasted in a restaurant right in the middle of the room, type of a thing.  My jaw dropped as I looked at the picture. What in the world was this mom thinking? What was her reasoning for doing this?”

Let me clarify her reason for you ma’am. Her reason is none of your fucking business. How and where she decides to breastfeed is her decision based on her own comfort level and what’s best for she and her baby. You could call the police for public indecency, but the only state you might get traction in would be Idaho which, lets face it, isn’t a real place. However, it is where I suggest you move to protect your fragile eyes from other women’s bare breasts.boobmapThis map clearly shows that, in spite of it’s flaws,
America is pretty consistent when it comes to breastfeeding laws.

“This whole refusing-to-wear-a-cover-while-nursing-in-public trend has been bothering me for some time now. You see, there have been several moments over the past 6 months where I have encountered mothers nursing without covers and without fail, every single time I have felt uncomfortable and offended by it.”

Actually, this quote is the only part of the blog post I actually enjoyed because your discomfort and offense makes my wife breastfeeding without a cover all the more enjoyable. In fact, please send me your daily itinerary so I can quit my job to drive my wife around full-time to wherever you are. I’ll also starve my son so that he’s voracious when we arrive, requiring that he feed on two naked breasts simultaneously. You’ll have to file a restraining order against my wife’s nipples. And I hope that every man in your life is there so that all of their eyeballs pop out of their heads, which I will then collect to use as X-mas ornaments. If my wife is unavailable to accommodate your schedule, I’m going to get breast implants, fill them up with milk, and breastfeed anyone who’s thirsty right in front of you. If you look at me sideways I’m going to lacto-squirt you right in your forehead. Will that make you uncomfortable?

“I have seen so many posts praising women for “baring it all,” but what is the purpose? Is she making a point that she doesn’t need to follow a certain code of conduct while out in public? Is she making a statement that it’s her body and she will do what she pleases with it — whenever, wherever?”

She is making a point. It’s that she doesn’t need to follow your code of conduct while out in public. Just because you follow a repressed, Puritanical belief that a bare breast is offensive doesn’t mean the rest of us have to follow suit. As for a code of conduct, it would appear that your Christian code of conduct involves posting a blog that openly judges and shames someone who doesn’t breastfeed in a manner that you find appropriate. Is that what Jesus would do?

By the way, I hope you don’t wear a bathing suit in public, or red lipstick, yoga pants, anything that shows cleavage, or even form fitting clothing. If you do, you’re making a statement that it’s yoru body and you’ll do whatever you please with it, whenever, wherever. If you do, I think your husband should question why you’re trying to get attention from and attract other men, because that’s what god designed all of those things to do, turn on men. Also, all other insecure women should write a blog post about your offensive behavior as it’s clearly making them uncomfortable. In fact, I think we all agree that the only appropriate outfit for women to wear in public is…

burkaDamn baby, I like the way your forehead looks in them drapes.

…and by “we all” I mean you and ISIS.

“Is she trying to make a statement that breasts are made for feeding a child, therefore I shouldn’t be bothered when my husband or son are staring at her breasts?”

So, if your husband is staring at my wife’s boobs it’s her fault? She does have a fabulous rack so she could be blamed for that, but I’m pretty sure that his eyeballs are out of her control (Wait, unless my wife is Kilgrave. OMG. Is my wife Kilgrave?!?). Apparently, his eyes are also out of his control since he’s compelled to stare at other women’s boobs while they’re breastfeeding. Might I suggest he learn to:

A) hide the fact that he’s staring from you
B) stare only when you’re not present
C) speak to a professional about his attraction to breastfeeding moms?

By the way, unless your husband is gay, he is looking at other women’s boobs, their butts, legs, lips, eyes, hair, and every other imaginable body part, regardless of whether or not it’s covered. Because he is a man and we are visual creatures whose eyes are attracted to the female form. If you think he’s consumed with gazing longingly at you all the time (at least until a bare breast makes an appearance), you live in a fantasy world reserved for the most naive of women.

I’m going to digress here for a moment to express something that might offend all women who breastfeed, for which I do not apologize in the slightest. Breastfeeding is not sexy. You may be beautiful and glowing from recently giving life to a brand new human. You may be providing that human with the sustenance he/she needs to grow healthy and strong which is a beautiful thing. But your drippy, milk engorged breast with big blue veins and a slightly odd shape being sucked on by an infant doesn’t give me a boner. I love that you breastfeed. I applaud you for breastfeeding. I will fight for your right to breastfeed. But I won’t stare at you breastfeeding because, although it’s a beautiful act on so many levels, it’s not a turn-on. It’s just kind of weird to look at, from a man’s point of view. (However, I cannot speak for that mom blogger’s husband.)

“They keep feeding us the pitch; “our breasts were made to do this. It’s normal. It’s natural. It shouldn’t bother anyone.” Um, yeah, about that. Yes, it’s true that a woman’s breasts were made to produce milk to feed her child, but ALSO, a woman’s breasts were made to turn a man on. That’s the way God designed us. (Read Song of Solomon, Chapter 7. It clearly talks about the way God made men and the way that they view a woman’s body). That’s the way God designed men.”

This particular statement is difficult for me to refute but only in the sense that arguing with religious people is like, well, arguing with religious people. Per my response to her previous quote, we do agree on the fact that men are attracted to women. Obviously I don’t base that statement on the designs of a make-believe omnipotent being but rather the biological need for sexual attraction in order to perpetuate our species.

By the way, the Song Of Solomon is amazing in the same sense that Donald Trump is an “amazing” candidate for President.

“God made our breasts (our entire body for that matter) as a feature for our husbands to enjoy.They don’t just enjoy our breasts, they are turned on by them. And what happens when a man is turned on? Welp, if you don’t know, I’ll break it down nice and easy. SEX. Sex leads to babies, and babies lead to nursing our children. That is how we were designed! And this is partly where my frustration lies. I don’t want my husband to see another woman’s breasts (whether a baby is attached or not), and I certainly don’t want my son to see that either.”

Ok, I just can’t. “God” didn’t make your body. Evolution made your body. And your husband’s body. And evolution designed your husbands body to ensure the survival of the species by making him want to have sex with most, if not all, women. Not just his wife. Yes, your breasts are part of the physical package that (theoretically) turns him on, and may even be at the top of the list of attributes that attract him to you. Just FYI, covered or not, other women’s breasts still excite him. He’ll probably never ever ever ever admit it, but he wants to motorboat some of those women. He wants to put his face between their bazongas, shake his head back and forth, and blow raspberries like a little baby. He wants to pretend like he’s the nursing baby. No amount of your wanting, hoping, wishing, or praying is going to change that. On some level you know that, otherwise you wouldn’t be so concerned that he might see another woman’s breast. You might as well either want other women not to exist altogether, or for your husband to have his eyes plucked out by a raven (I assume that’s in the bible somewhere). Understand that he’s attracted to other women even when they’re not feeding their child. Hopefully he’s attracted to other women especially when they’re not feeding their child. Your insecurity doesn’t prevent that. Your insecurity, at the visual stimulation provided by other women, certainly doesn’t prevent that. Because, although your husband pleasures himself behind your back to the mental images of other women, he’s likely/hopefully not acting on it in real life. That’s how adult men work, biologically and socially speaking. Although he wants to have sex with most, if not all, other women, he doesn’t because he developed in a social environment that practices monogamy. He may have impulses, but he doesn’t act on those impulses. Unless of course he’s cheating on you as you read this which then makes my argument moot.

You can’t fault other women for your husband’s attractions. Rather than chastising them for breastfeeding without a cover, how about asking him to look away? Problem solved. 

As for your son, go ahead and repress him. “Protect” his fragile psyche from the vision of partially exposed breasts or any other image you deem “sexual”. Keep him in a bubble and pray over him so that he never searches the internet for pictures or videos of naked women. That’s a totally realistic approach to raising a child who is psychiatrically well balanced and has a healthy view of sex and women’s bodies. It’s a known fact that sheltering your children from everything causes them to develop normally. He certainly won’t grow up to be a chronic shame-filled masturbator or an awkward religious perv (see: Josh Duggar). He’ll grow up to be the perfect little Christian gentleman that you’re forcing helping him to be.

Ah, I’m starting to feel much better. Usually I wouldn’t call out a specific individual, particularly one my wife actually knows, but this warranted a response. See, I’m the guy proudly sitting next to the woman breastfeeding with no cover because she’s my wife. I’m looking at one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen and my heart is filled with so much love that her partially bare breast doesn’t even register. Don’t get me wrong, I know that it might register with other people. Those people might choose to throw a dirty look in our direction, or even a loud “Hmph” if they’re so inclined. But I dare them to say a negative word to my wife. I fucking dare them. Because if they’ve never experienced being reduced to a withered puddle of tears in public they’re about to find out how it feels. I’ll show them what it truly means to feel uncomfortable and offended.

Look, we live in a free society and I not only respect, but will fight for your right to exercise the 1st Amendment and communicate your opinion on a blog, even if it’s stupid. I might not even comment on it, except for when shames my wife and calls her behavior into question. In that case, you asked for it.

In addition to attacking women who breastfeed without adhering to her insecure, psuedo-religious standards, the author is also contributing to the weakening of society. This culture of the social warrior/morality police/PC fuckwits, what I refer to as “professional victims”, desperately want to be offended by something to give them purpose in life. It’s pathetic. You belittle yourself when you cry about shit that doesn’t actually effect you. You also belittle real victims of legitimate wrongdoing. Plus you’re teaching your children to be weak, overly sensitive beings who will spend their lives finding any reason to be hurt by other people’s words and actions. Try focusing on yourself, and your behavior, and lead by example rather than chastising people for how they are “wronging” you with the way they live their lives. Stop being such a pussy.

Hugs.

That’s a wrap my friends. Unless you’re a lactating breast, then it’s an unwrap. Peace.

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If you love me, or better yet, hate me, check out Superior Podcast, the new weekly recording I’m going with comedian Hal Sparks. It’s at http://superior.libsyn.com and will be available to subscribe on iTunes and Stitcher shortly.

Twitter: @frankprather

IG: frankprather

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