Cat's In The Cradle My Ass
As I was driving to work this morning, tired and sore from our last Little League game of the season, this song came on. I had a few thoughts as I listened to it. The first was that I hoped no one I knew would see me at the red light, thereby discovering that I was on the easy listening station and blow my disguise as a hard-rocking rebel. The second was that someone should tell that kid in the song that if his Dad hasn't taught him to throw a ball by the time he's ten, his dad's a great big fag. And I don't mean that in the sense that Dad coordinates his wardrobe and knows all the good restaurants in Provincetown either. The third thing was that I should probably spend less time with my kids, before they kill me.
Bad enough that I coach Little League and have to deal with my own son and his habit of hammering line drives up the middle. It's a coach pitch league, but not a coach field league, so I can't stick my glove up. My reflexes are getting much better, but I think I've sprained three different muscle groups in my back this year while diving out of the way, I've been hit twice by hard ground balls, and once I had to catch a line drive because the alternative was to let the kid playing pitcher get skulled. But last night after getting back from the game my kids wanted to play kickball. Them against me. My son is very athletic and hammers the ball all over the place. He's also a devious little bastard and not above dropping a bunt if I back off to try to catch a hard shot. Of course, I'm not above pegging him hard enough to knock him off his feet when I do field a bunt, so I guess we're even on that one. My daughter, on the other hand, is a very good artist. But not an athlete. Or a competitor. So while I can get to her kicks easily, if I get her out more than one time in a row, she'll cry. And forget about a shot to the head. So she'll kick it and I'll have to run after my son, throw the ball into the bushes, run after it, get the ball out of the poison ivy, chase him as he sprints for home, then hurl the ball at his head while at a dead run from 30' away. While all this is going on my daughter gets to first base and my pulse gets to 146.
This went on for a good half hour before Daddy's BP reached near-stroke proportions and I called it off. I blamed their having to take showers, in between great big whooping gasps for air.
In short, Harry Chapin had the right idea. His kids may have grown up to ignore him, but at least he wasn't in pain during the entire warm season.
Of course, he also got high too much....
Bad enough that I coach Little League and have to deal with my own son and his habit of hammering line drives up the middle. It's a coach pitch league, but not a coach field league, so I can't stick my glove up. My reflexes are getting much better, but I think I've sprained three different muscle groups in my back this year while diving out of the way, I've been hit twice by hard ground balls, and once I had to catch a line drive because the alternative was to let the kid playing pitcher get skulled. But last night after getting back from the game my kids wanted to play kickball. Them against me. My son is very athletic and hammers the ball all over the place. He's also a devious little bastard and not above dropping a bunt if I back off to try to catch a hard shot. Of course, I'm not above pegging him hard enough to knock him off his feet when I do field a bunt, so I guess we're even on that one. My daughter, on the other hand, is a very good artist. But not an athlete. Or a competitor. So while I can get to her kicks easily, if I get her out more than one time in a row, she'll cry. And forget about a shot to the head. So she'll kick it and I'll have to run after my son, throw the ball into the bushes, run after it, get the ball out of the poison ivy, chase him as he sprints for home, then hurl the ball at his head while at a dead run from 30' away. While all this is going on my daughter gets to first base and my pulse gets to 146.
This went on for a good half hour before Daddy's BP reached near-stroke proportions and I called it off. I blamed their having to take showers, in between great big whooping gasps for air.
In short, Harry Chapin had the right idea. His kids may have grown up to ignore him, but at least he wasn't in pain during the entire warm season.
Of course, he also got high too much....
posted by limpy99 at 8:52 AM
18 Comments:
I have a similar situation....their dad is a fag.
just kidding. I can't let those go by.
The youngest is the athlete. You try to throw her out and she throws the ball back at you. Usually right in the tits, which really hurts. The oldest just cries - "That's not fair! You always get me out!" Well, duh, you run really slow...
Last line: or not enough.
I loved kickball when I was a kid. Now, not so much. You're a good dad to be so involved- your kids will remember that when they're older...and hopefully they won't be scarred for life ;)
Hey, how did the video game go over?
Maggie, I'll take a shot to the tits anytime over one to the balls. But I get your point.
Joe, I thought Chapin OD'd?
Tysgirl, the game has gone over big. I have to admit I'm sort of addicted to it. The violence is there, but sort of cartoonish. The language doesn't get much worse than "ass." I have yet to see any nudity.
I'm kind of disappointed about that.
"...got high too much" Between the ages of 15-24 years of age, there isn't such a thing.
Beyond 24, a person kind of needs to grow-up.
Beyond 35, well now you're just a stereotype.
hah! admit it, you love playing with your kids! they're going to look back on these years (when they're older) and laugh about how dad did this, and dad did that. and you'll look back and be thankful for those crotch shots your son got in and made it hard ot have more than two kids :)
chances are they'll also be involved in their kids lives rather than letting them raise themselves.
Yeah, your kids will look back fondly on those days and say things like,
"Remember how before dad's stroke during that last kickball game he used to always hit Son it the head as hard as he could with the ball? Good times. I really miss the old guy once in a while."
So, next weekend you're doing something artistic and non-competitive with the kids, right? Just to, y'know, even out your participation in their individual skills. And also to save you from having your ass handed to you by a smart-ass 9 year old. ;)
It's great that you play kickball with your kids.
How's your poison ivy?
PG, or you could be self-medicating glaucoma.
DW, darn, you've uncovered my softer side!
Phollower, they sure won't be remembering me for the inheritance! I'm spending that now.
Eclectic, um, no. My artistic side is pretty much limited to paper airplanes and coloring in the lines.
LK, clearing up nicely thank you.
Harry Chapin was one of my all-time favorite singer-sing writers. He died much too young.
I like that song. It does remind me of my father though. My brother is always saying "Cats in the Cradle" whenever anyone mentions our dad. "Total fag" pretty much sums him up (though again not in the fishnet shirt, astroglide kinda way). The only thing he taught us was how to avoid paying child support.
Your not that kind of man, which is why your kids actaully want to spend time with you.
Nick, they all do don't they?
Nonny, after today's trip to the school cafeteria to keep the kids in hot lunches I'm beginning to wonder if child support might not be cheaper.
And it's about damn time you came back!
The cats outa the bag!
you're a good Dad.
But I guess I already knew that when you were talking about the cow bells...
Most can't be bothered to play with their kids let alone coach.
That was hilarious - I could see the whole scene. I like that you retaliate with the knock down pitch after the bunt. I'm waiting for Clemens to do that. Happy Father's Day.
Happy Dad's Day, Limpy. I mean, assuming you're a happy dad and all.
I'm sure there's a salve for that poison ivy.
Rat and Eclectic, thanks.
BP, if I get a bad case, I use this stuff called Super Ivy Dry. The acetone smell is enough to peel paint, but it works like magic.
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