Because of the high cost of housing in NYC, the roller coaster Stock Market, and lack of jobs, I think there might be an angry little man squatting inside my chest. I don’t mean that there is someone sitting on my chest, I’m afraid there is an actual little person living in my chest. How he got in there I don’t know. How he is able to sleep with all the heart-pounding is beyond me. Maybe that’s part of his problem. You see at one time in my life I was a laid back kind of guy. Something would go wrong and I’d brush it right off like dandruff on Bruce Willis’s head. (Bruce Willis is a bald man so he probably doesn’t have dandruff.) Someone could make me mad and I’d smile and be on my way. You want to cut in front of me, no big deal. But somewhere along my lifeline, something happened. Now from what I’m about to tell you might sound crazy or right out of a horror movie, but this is what I think happened. One night I was sleeping soundly and a tiny man stomped into my home without waking anyone. He walked by me and saw how nicely I was sleeping and this just pissed him right off. So he either climbed down my throat, ear canal, or… let’s just stick to throat or ear canal, and from there he made a cozy little home. Let’s make this crazier and give the little fellow a name. We’ll call him Napoleon. I think most of the time Napoleon is taking a siesta or maybe he goes out for some Chateaubriand or Chicken a la Diable from time to time. Unfortunately, he comes back usually at the worse time. Now I’ve got some great kids and since I used the words “now I’ve got some great kids” means that I’m about to rip on them and so I shall. I love them with all my heart but they can really make me mad. Like turn green and rip apart my clothes kind of mad. At least once a day they’ll blatantly refuse an order. (Did you see I wrote “order?” There’s a whole other issue but right now let’s stick to this anger issue.) This makes Napoleon beside himself. Napoleon isn’t as patient and laid back as I am. He starts yelling and about this and that and then before long he makes me look bad. Napoleon overlooks the fact that they’re only 7 and 5 and in the heat of a moment goes all Waterloo. I’ll end my heated verbal exchange feeling like a conquered egotistical totalitarian. So that is my downfall. I let the angry man inside me think for me. I know they’re just kids and are still trying to figure out a compromise with their inner issues. After all, I’m 36 and still trying to figure out mine.
So how does someone like me with anger management issues raise kids? Should I count? Or how about leave the room? I’m afraid that if I count my kids will live their lives thinking their old man can only count to 10 and if I leave the room that could lead to a whole new abandonment problem for them. So what should I do? TELL ME WHAT TO DO! Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you. Here’s what I think I need to do and it is so easy I’m not sure why I haven’t thought of it. I should not yell at all. Case solved and I wasted your time for nothing. If only it was that easy. Kids learn at an early age that the loudest is the one that’s right. Just look at Congress. And sadly I’m dialing up and sending that message to my kids. If I don’t get a hold of this yelling thing I’ll pass it on to them and someday they might be discussing their inner tiny dictator.
So here is what I’ll do. From now on as blog as my witness, I’ll only yell at my kids in life-threatening situations. When they make me mad I’ll try to speak in my calm nice voice. Let’s see how long this lasts.
I’d also like to add that I’m not crazy