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I’ve moved my blog to a separate site. Click to read my latest post, One of the Girls.

I’ve moved my blog away from the book site. Click to read my latest post, Donuts With Dads.

I’ve separated out my blog from this site. Please click to read my latest post, The Bathroom Attendant.

I’ve moved my away from this site. Click here to read my latest post, Guaranteed Winners.

I’ve separated my blog out from this website. Please click to read my latest post, Mystery New Year’s Goal–Childhelp.

I’ve separated my blog from this site. To read my latest post, please click on Trips to Work.

I’ve moved my blog. Click to read my latest post, Happy New Year.

I’ve got a new post up, but you’d never know it from this site. My blog has been separated out and moved to johncaveosborne.com. To read my latest post, The Good, the Bad, and the Snuggie, please click here.

I’m in the process of making some changes to my cyber setup. From now on, my blog will be hosted at johncaveosborne.com. As you will soon see, that page points prominently to the LaughterThought Media and Tales from the Trips site. If, by chance, you have me on your blog roll, you may want to replace your current link with the johncaveosborne.com address. In the meantime, click to read my latest post: Banners That Hang on Shapeless Walls.

I’m in the process of making some changes to my cyber setup. From now on, my blog will be hosted at johncaveosborne.com. As you will soon see, that page points prominently to the LaughterThought Media and Tales from the Trips site. If, by chance, you have me on your blog roll, you may want to replace your current link with the johncaveosborne.com address. In the meantime, click to read my latest post, Instant Classic.

Click here to read the latest post, Instant Classic.

Before I get started today, let me remind everyone that it’s Fatherhood Friday over at dad-blogs! Check out what all the other wonderful dads are blogging about today by clicking here. Now, on to what this dad has to say:

Branding can be tough. As many of you know, I have a book coming out in April called Tales from the Trips. About six weeks ago, I became active on twitter and began writing this blog (which, by the way, is about to get a major facelift…) in part to help spread the word. When trying to promote a parenting memoir, it makes all the sense in the world to blog about, well, parenting.

Because of my online activity, I understand why people view me first and foremost as a father. But what puzzles me is that many seem to consider me a goody-goody. At least that’s what I’ve gathered from numerous post comments, tweets, and DMs from many of my cyber-peeps. Just because a guy loves his wife and children and believes in God does not relegate that guy to a life sentence on the Good Ship Lollypop.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not exactly running around with Sid Vicious’s heroin needle sticking out of the scarred underside of my forearm, but rest assured, folks, there’s another side to me that’s not all about the Disney Chanel and sippy cups. Even though I spend the vast majority of my non-working hours in a fatherly capacity, there are many times when I gotta get my adult on.

One such time will be tomorrow night, when Lovie and I will host the fourth annual Men of the Woods (MOTW) Christmas party. Who are the Men of the Woods, you ask? My camping buddies, many of whom convene at my friend Shane’s house every Thursday night to discuss important topics like Tennessee football and the pig who was born with no anus.

Forgive me for shattering your pristine image of me, but the annual MOTW Christmas party? It’s quite a raucous affair. Don’t believe me? See for yourself. Below is a little video I put together from last year’s soiree which requires a little setting up.

A friend of ours has (inexplicably) taken to shocking his friends by donning a speed-o at large gatherings and walking around as if nothing whatsoever is out of the ordinary. (Alcohol is clearly a factor.) His name is Spade (yes, that’s his real name), but after he pulled this stunt at a couple of different gatherings, I coined a nickname for him.

Spade-O.

Last year at the MOTW party, Spade-O took his act to another level when (on a cold, rainy night in mid-December, mind you) he decided to get our swimming pool involved. I’m not sure which is more disturbing—my friend’s proclivity to rock a banana hammock, or the curious preoccupation of mine that compelled me to document it via the following “mocumentary.” I guess I’ll let you decide for yourself–but warning…it’s a little out there, and it’s quite possible you’d need to know my friend to appreicate the video. But enough of my disclaimers. Without further ado, I give you SPADE-O.

Lovie, would you please get my dentures for me? I think B has them.

Well it happened. This past Tuesday. I turned forty. And while I am totally fine with it, even I have to admit that I’m starting to feel my age, especially when it comes to containing our two-year-old triplets. Simply put, I’m not the man at forty that I was at thirty, or even thirty-five. At least physcially. That said, there are some real benefits to hitting this mile-marker as they relate to my family. Here are my top ten.

10. The trips eat dinner at 5:00 (about the time I now like to eat) and go down at 7, which leaves me a brief but adequate window for bingo.

9. I’m finally as old as my wife. (Sorry, Lovie)

8. Simultaneous meltdowns by three fussy two-year olds? They’re starting not to bother me. My hearing’s not what it used to be.

7. Even on the rare occasions when such meltdowns do bother me, I can always spit out my dentures. They’re usually good for a laugh. Especially when I chase A, B, and C around the house while chomping them together with my hand.

6. Whenever I hear one of the trips crying through the monitor at three in the morning, it’s not that big of a deal for me to get up and see what the problem is. It’s overwhelmingly likely that I need to pee anyway.

5. If we run out of diapers, I’m happy to let them borrow my Depends.

4. They love to play with my cane.

3. But that’s nothing compared to the joy they get from swinging on the crossbar of my walker.

2. I’m becoming more and more like Pookie. It turns out that lately, I, too, like to watch TV with the volume turned up super-loud.

1. Whenever one of the trips is constipated, no more running to the store. I’m more than happy to share my prune juice with them.

Twas the night before Christmas, and we’ve come to grips
With life that is crazy and laden with trips.
But not ones to islands, or Vegas, or Rome.
‘Cuz our trips are little and mess up our home.

It all started quickly, too sudden it seemed,
When I fell in love with the girl of my dreams.
One who is pretty, and witty, and kind.
I fell for her spirit, her body, and mind.

It wasn’t just her who melted my heart,
But also her daughter, who played a key part
Of bringing this bachelor right down to his knees
To ask her sweet momma to “marry me, please.”

Just thirteen months later much chaos ensued
When three little babies came into our brood.
The first months were trying, of that there’s no doubt.
The triplets were crying which caused me to shout:

“MY GOODNESS, what happened to life as I knew it?
My cell phone is shattered. A baby just threw it.
If I pick up one, another will cry.
One of them just took a whiz in my eye.”

They kept us up late and woke us up early.
These two little boys and this one little girlie.
My Lovie, my Pookie, my doggy, and me
Did all that we could to take care of the three.

Our first Christmas came, and then we were a part
Of magical moments that rang in my heart.
Lovie, and Pookie, and A, B, and C,
Gathered together and sat by the tree.

Of all of the things that we opened that day,
Not one of them mattered to me in a way
That rivaled the way that I felt about them.
For they are my gift that was given by Him.

Christmas 07 Pookie holding (from l to r) B, C, and A

The next time we gathered around by the tree,
Our babies were starting to walk aimlessly.
The start of their journey, it filled me with tears,
And forced me to ponder the upcoming years.

Just who would they be and where would they go?
There really was no certain way that we’d know.
But one thing was sure, the three were much fun.
Their magical journey in life had begun.

Christmas 08 clockwise Me, Pookie, B, C, A, and Lovie

And now they enjoy their third Christmastime,
Which prompts me to break out in this little rhyme.
A tribute, my friend, to all that I see.
A tribute I give to our little three.

Combine them with Pook, and our crew is complete,
With four little beings and their eight little feet.
My Lovie and I, we seldom have time,
To sit on the couch, relax and unwind.

We take care of Pookie and tend to the trips,
And wish we had pointers, some ideas, or tips.
‘Cause this year it seems just as hard as it gets.
Even for us. And we’re seasoned vets.

Toddlers, I tell you, are ruthless, my friend.
Off in the distance, they’re screaming again.
And three of them running all kinds of amuck?
Yanking on Elmo? Demanding a truck?

Don’t CARE what you say–not even the Gotties
Could deal with the three as they sit on their potties.
Or how ‘bout the noise that always abounds?
It leaves our heads spinning around and around.

But all of that matters quite little to me.
‘Cuz this is our life–it’s all meant to be.
Oh what we would give for a break here and there?
We’ll wait til we’re old til we rock in a chair.

And now I will leave you with this earnest thread,
that’s sewn in a quilt to lay on your bed.
To help you stay warm this cold winter night.
To help you remember–continue the fight.

We’ve all got our issues, our hassles, our lives.
We’ve all lost a loved one who still lives inside.
If with you this Christmas, or Heaven above,
I hope you are warmed by the glow of their love.

So all you who read this take nothing for granted.
Use this fine season to grow what you’ve planted.
In pots that are family that soak up the Light.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

A

B

C

Pookie

Remember the reason. Be thankful for your blessings. Focus on Goodness. -jco-

So perhaps you’ve heard of one Ashton Kutcher,  actor-hearthrob,  Mr. Demi Moore, fellow step dad, new media magnate, and Twitter force of nature.

Well, to my great surprise, he’s heard of me. Or at least, he somehow ran across one of my You Tube videos – one depicting a night I spent solo parenting the triplets without Lovie, who was enjoying a much-deserved evening out with our eight-year-old daughter, Pook. (That’s right. from now on, I’m rollin’ with code names. If you wanna know the real ones, buy my book!) I still have no idea how Ashton Kutcher happened on my video, but however that happened, he was nice enough to tweet about it this past Saturday. December 5th. At 3:50. Not that I remember the details or anything. 

Yes, you read that right: two days ago, Ashton Kutcher gave my video a shout out to his 4 million-plus Twitter followers. (Thanks dude!)  Not long after that, Alyssa Milano (who was always the boss in my book), retweeted Ashton’s link to my video.  And now, parenting bloggers are talking it up, and people are trying to get Ellen Degeneres to notice it via Twitter.

This is amazing. The funny thing is that I actually blogged this video a couple of months ago, but no one seemed to notice. Enter Ashley, the Alyssa, and it blows up. Don’t worry. I’m not offended.

And here’s the video that seems to be capturing people’s attention. If you know someone who might get a kick out of it, I hope you’ll forward this post along.

One of the coolest things I’ve done in a long time is join the dad-blog community. I have “met” a diverse group of fantastic fathers–and a few awesome moms, too! One of the coolest things about the dad-blog community is Fatherhood Friday. This week’s theme is holiday traditions, and I strongly encourage you to visit dad-blogs to read what other bloggers have to say about them. Regrettably, with two-year-old triplets constantly adding chaos to our world, any traditions that my wife, daughter, and I were creating have been temporarily blown up. Therefore, we don’t really have any to write about, but coincidentally, yesterday’s post dealt one of the greatest holiday traditions of all–Christmas dinner. I hope you enjoy!

Caroline and I decided to host Thanksgiving this year. It didn’t go that well. It turns out that preparing such an all-encompassing meal with three cranky two-year-olds constantly vying for attention isn’t easy. In fact it’s hard, not to mention noisy. To get everything done, we had to (temporarily) blow off our needy trio, which didn’t go over well. At least that’s what we gathered during the ensuing succession of DEFCON 1 temper tantrums.

To say that the constant chaos hampered everyone’s enjoyment would be an understatement. I’m near certain that my brother-in-law and his family will never come over again. And they weren’t the only ones who were put off.

Adam Lambert called. He thought hosting Thanksgiving while shackled with three two-year-olds was a little over the top.

Charlie Weis’s buyout thought it was too much.

New Coke wondered why we did it in the first place.

Richard Heene knew all along that we’d never pull it off.

The mere thought of it made his son Falcon wanna puke.

Fair enough. But I’m a big believer in redemption. And Christmas is right around the corner. What better time to redeem oneself than Christmas? Perhaps Caroline and I could step up to the hosting plate again, you know, as a way of making amends for the noisy Thanksgiving.

Chernobyl is worried about potential meltdowns.

Hmm. Valid. I know! Caroline and I will do a better job of containing the kiddies. A contributing factor to them losing it on Thanksgiving was all the excitement. If we sequestered them in our room and took turns entertaining them, the triplets would be oblivious to all the commotion and would be far less likely to erupt.

Sequestering three family members during a family gathering? Is this thing family oriented or not? Miley Cyrus thinks we’re sending mixed messages.

Tiger Woods says go ahead and separate them. But beware. Eventually, they’ll probably figure it out.

R. Kelly called. He’s got a new gig. He the official chaperone for a prestigious girls’ boarding school. He supervises the young ladies on all outings. He thinks it’ll be hard to watch the kids without thinking about that juicy meat you’re just dying to eat. (Sorry, that was a stretch, but I’m a sucker for a good R. Kelly joke.)

With all the time spent watching the kiddies, there’s always the chance we’ll forget about the turkey. Inappropriate and often crass descriptions immediately followed by far more conventional verbiage Strikethrough text worries the turkey will be overdone—WAY, WAY, WAY OVERDONE.

Michael Vick pointed out that the bedroom is where we keep our dog during large gatherings. He’s on the trips for a dime and thinks others in his possie may be down as well.

Wait, we can’t have people wagering on fights that pit our triplets against our spastic, pink-lipstick-toting dog. MacKenzie Phillips thinks that’s sick.

Enough already! Everyone’s right. Hosting another holiday meal would be a bad call. We’ll let someone else host, thank you very much. Instead of running around in circles trying to concurrently contend with potty training and Spinach Maria, we’ll load up our brood, hit the road, and watch someone else do all the work.

Sure hope the triplets behave better than they did on Thanksgiving. Hang on a sec. I just got a text. It’s from Tareq and Michaele Salahi. Before we pack everyone up, they think it’d be a good idea to make certain that we were still invited.

Solid point.

All three of our toddlers are currently going through a no-one-but-Mommy phase. Though I do perfectly fine with them on my own, the second Caroline enters the room, I magically turn into chopped liver. With mold on it. This is way more than a mild preference for Mommy’s soft touch over Daddy’s two-day stubble. It’s a primal feeling deep within their souls—one that usually manifests itself in Daddy rejection and Mommy chasing, the onset of which is marked by screaming, flailing, even spasmodic rolling as if I’d just doused them with a cauldron of scalding water.

Honestly? I’m starting to develop a complex. During such tirades, I’m frozen with insecurity. Seeing the three of them fight for position as they scratch and tug on Caroline with six needy hands makes me want to intervene and pick one of them up. But I know such an effort would be futile, for if I dare approach, the screaming, scratching, and tugging would become even worse. Scalding water, remember? So I remain frozen, a living, breathing second fiddle; Robin to Caroline’s Batman–the man of the house reduced to a mere boy wonder.

Boy, wonder what I should do?

“Get over here!” Caroline wants to scream like a mind reader, and often does. Like me, she knows it would make matters worse, yet her desperation is sometimes powerful enough to trick her into thinking that maybe this time will be different. But it won’t be, as upon my approach, the babies will wail louder than seems possible, causing aircraft engines to run for their earplugs, and me to retreat back to my frozen insecurity. The wails will then relent (a little), but the non-stop pawing is just beginning, and poor Caroline will be unable to find even a moment’s respite for at least an hour.  Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Sam, Jack, and Kirby are like fussy paparazzi chasing their favorite rock star longing to be held by the celebrity of her soft, safe love. I’ve officially named this phenomenon Mommapalooza, and truth be told, I’m a little fed up with it. Where’s the love for Daddy? I mean seriously, I’m money on the grill not to mention the fact that I build one hell of a fire. And where, exactly, do at least two of these three little monsters think they’d be without my potent and relentless brand of semen? Hmm? It’s time I got a little attention around here my-damn-self.

After some brainstorming, I finally figured out how. If I wanted to be appreciated like my wife, then I had to act like my wife.

I could drive with a quarter of my normal ability, making other drivers wish my SUV was made of nerf as I barrel down the road while I simultaneously check my lipstick, chat on my cell, and hand Jack his blankie.

I’ll also make preposterously delicious meals, then lament that they’re no good.

With little or no effort, I’ll emerge from the bathroom looking smoking-hot, before complaining about my weight.

I’ll be the one able to decode ANYTHING our triplets utter, successfully translating nonsensical words like bobbie into real words like pacifier, all the while remembering to feign ignorance when it comes to understanding even the simplest things my spouse says.

I’ll leave the grilling and fire-building to her. She’ll also take out the trash, change the light bulbs, and stuff like that. After all, for this plan to work, not only do I need to start acting like her—she has to start acting like me.

Oh shit. Wait. Does that mean she’ll leave crumpled-up paper towels all over the place? Will she walk aimlessly throughout the house on a never-ending quest for her car keys? She better not be constantly watching football. After all, for me to be like her, there’s bound to be some bullshit CSI I’ll need to fall asleep to. How can I do that if she’s locked into Monday Night Football? She’s not even rooting for either team. She’s on the under.

What if she becomes neurotic? Surely she won’t think of sixty different ways to ask me how the smoked turkey turned out, will she? She won’t demand that I rate it on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being high, right?

What if she starts asking me to categorize everything in terms of enjoyment? “Honey, was that not as fun as you thought it would be, as much fun as you thought it would be, or more fun than you thought it would be?” Oh NO! You don’t think she’ll start losing hair (rather ungracefully) on her pate, do you?

I suppose it wouldn’t matter–I’d love her anyway. But if she starts obsessing on whether to use “which” or “that” in any given sentence, I just may have to call this damn thing off. After all, I can barely stand it when I pull that kind of shit. Think how frustrated I’d be witnessing someone else doing it!

Caroline marched into our room in the middle of my brainstorming session as if she had something important to say. “Honey,” she began, “I’ve had it up to my ears in babies. I’m leaving town.”

Holy shit! That’s terrible. Where could she be going?

“Holy cow! That’s terrific. Where will you be going?”

“To the mountains with my Bible study group. I’ll be gone for one night. Think you can handle it?”

Puh-lease. Caroline may be the headliner, but when it comes to understudies, I’m as capable as it gets. If you don’t believe me, take a look at how great I did the last time she left town.

This afternoon, I went upstairs and woke the babies from their nap at four. We played for a while before heading downstairs where they sat on the potty and I waited for Alli to get home from school. My four children and I went through the same evening routine we always do, just not as fluidly. I fought through the inevitable disappointment that came when the trips realized that Mommy wasn’t home. I tried not to be upset when their tempers flared. I tried to not be heartbroken when our baby girl gave me a forlorn look while repeatedly asking “Mommy, bye bye?” in a disbelieving and barely-audible voice. Together, the five of us muscled through the best we could, each of my children all too aware that the star of the show was not on stage with us.

It’s now half past nine, and suddenly it’s me who’s just now realized that Mommy’s not home. It’s me who’s disappointed, and, yes, even a bit forlorn. I hate it when she’s away. It’s so different without her—just a house, not the home she magically makes it.

No wonder the babies carry on and on about her. She is a rock star. And unlike me, they’re smart enough to realize it each and every single moment, not just the ones she’s not around.

At least I’m still money on the grill.

A bunch of my jackass friends and I convene every Thursday night in my buddy’s basement to talk about life and how to live it. Okay, that’s bullshit. It’s really more of an excuse to knock a few back than anything else. But in between all the beer drinking we do discuss a number of interesting topics—it’s just that none of them are very deep. Accordingly, our wives consider these gatherings nothing more than garden-variety family abandonment.

Touché.

BUT, rest assured, lovely wives, our gatherings are not without purpose. Just this past week, for example, I learned something that was interesting, compelling, as well as provocative. It was the first sentence of a story our host was good enough to relate to us, and with its very utterance, I knew I had found the topic for my next post.

“My brother-in-law bought a pig that was born with no anus.”

Family abandonment issues notwithstanding, if it weren’t for these weekly, booze-fueled man-chats, I would have never learned about this mysterious pig nor would I have known about the anus he never had. Absentee fathers? Problematic, no doubt. But waddling to the trough of life with no anus to help you process all the shit that said life subjects you to? Down right criminal!

I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to just stand by idly for another moment. I’m gonna befriend this anus-less pig. He’ll see. Even if he can’t ever find relief, at least, in me, he’ll always be able to find support. But how will I show him such support?

I know. I could introduce him to some new friends. I can see it now: “Pig with no anus, I’d like you to meet horse with no name.”

Maybe I could help the pig find a nice home. Hmmm. Can a pig with no anus buy a house with no credit? Hang on—phone’s ringing. Oh, it’s Bono, from U2. He wants me to tell the pig with no anus that he could always live where the streets have no name. Solid point, Bono. Thank you for taking a break from your sanctimonious agenda. You can go back to saving the world now. Please keep us informed of your tireless efforts via interviews in which you come off condescending—not that I blame you. If you didn’t talk down to us mere mortals, how could we ever fully appreciate your selfless efforts to fix all the things we’ve managed to fuck up?

Wow, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to interrupt my tribute to the pig with no anus by bashing a man with no humility. But our sensational swine, I’m told, has taken no offense. It seems he doesn’t much care for U2, anyhow. His favorite band? C’mon people. You know this. All pigs without anuses like Men Without Hats. That’s what they get down to in the club. And without all that slippery pig shit on the dance floor? Safety Dance? You’re damn straight it is.

And when a pig with no anus meets a beautiful female pig at the club, you know what he does, don’t you? You don’t? Hmmm. I really thought you’d be catching on by now. A pig with no anus takes the sexy sow back to his place, where the streets have no name, so the pig with no anus can engage in sex (with no strings attached, of course).

What happens next is obvious. Our sensational swine and his sultry sow will spawn a new generation of pigs with no anuses, pigs who will go on to walk in their father’s hoofprints. And what’s even better is that they’ll be able to do so without having to worry about stepping in a bunch of pig shit.

Wow. Thinking about all the good that this pig with no anus is doing for the animal kingdom, as well as for mankind? It’s giving me shivers. Just one brave pig, refusing to give up, gritting, gutting, and sometimes (one would have to assume) grunting his way through life with little if any thought given to the fact that he’s gotten the shit end of the stick (so to speak). And just look at how much he is capable of accomplishing.

Do you know what else he is capable of accomplishing? Inspiring folks like me to write a post with no point. Oink, oink, y’all.

1. Saying “peace out” while thumping her chest twice with a closed fist doesn’t make her look cool. Especially if she’s wearing her private school uniform. In fact, she kinda looks awkward, as if she’s trying to be something she isn’t. The coolest thing she could ever be is herself.

2. She didn’t decide to stop liking Raven-Symoné. Nor did she decide to start liking Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez. Balding, middle-aged men who spend countless hours in board rooms scouring over demographic spreadsheets and approval ratings make such decisions for her. Put more succinctly, Disney decides whom to push through their farm system of fame. Sometimes they get it right. (Shout out to J Timberlake.) But more often, those they groom eventually become flat-out train wrecks. (Shout out to Britney and Lindsay.) Perhaps it’s because they’ve always had every last little detail of their image scripted for them. After all, it’s hard to be a person if you’ve always been a persona. In my opinion, such folks are to be pitied, not lauded. It all kinda goes back to number one, doesn’t it?

3. Staying on the pop culture theme, “iCarly” is SO much better than Zach and Cody. Especially now that Zach and Cody are on a boat. “Sweet Life on Deck”? WTF?? If it sucked on land, isn’t it safe to assume it would suck just as hard at sea?

4. Miley Cyrus is a really, really, really bad singer. Our dog sings better than Miley. In fact, we’re starting to think he’s got a future. He’s very excited about it.

5. Getting into the habit of saying “sir” and “ma’am” at an early age will help her learn the concept of respect, both for others as well as herself.

great hair, boyfriend!

6. There’s not a single thing wrong with it in the world, but still, if she’s gonna have a crush on them, it’s only fair to point out–it’s overwhelmingly likely that at least one of the Jonas brothers is gay. (I’m sorry, that wasn’t very respectful.)

7. My wife and I don’t make rules to be mean. We make them to keep her safe. We don’t enforce them to break her spirit. We enforce them in an effort to steer that spirit in the direction we honestly believe will serve her best.

8. The eighth thing I wish my eight-year-old daughter knew is just how much I love her. I tell her all the time, but to her, they’re just words sounding in her ear, not emotion ringing in her heart. Such a proclamation is usually greeted with nothing more than an eye-roll. That’s okay, though. Because I have a fool-proof plan that will enable her, one day, to feel exactly how much I love her. That plan is for her to fall madly in love with a good man who is also madly in love with her, marry that man, then go on to have a child with him; a child who is as wonderful as she is. That ought to do the trick. However, for all that to happen, she’ll need to be a happy, healthy, confident, well-adjusted, grounded, and productive adult who constantly finds herself in positive situations thanks to making many more good decisions than bad. And for that to happen she’ll need a lot of help and direction, which, ironically, is the very intent of my love for her–the love that her eight-year-old mind doesn’t quite yet comprehend or appreciate. But one day she will. I can promise you that. And I’m happy to wait.

Cold and flu season is right around the corner, and once it’s upon us, you’re more than welcome to come over to our house—but remember—you’re doing so at your own risk. Because we live with an eight-year-old and three twenty-three-month old toddlers, which means that breaking our threshold is pretty much the viral equivalent of Russian roulette.

We actually weathered last season pretty well, though. Don’t get me wrong—it wasn’t like we didn’t get sick—we did. But the illnesses that made their way through our household merely hopped from one person to the next until they had infected everyone, at which point they would either fizzle out or start all over again. And if they started all over again, by the second or third time around, they ended up losing most of their punch—much like “the wave” at a football stadium finally wearing out its welcome and trickling down to an annoying conclusion. Still, minor ailments are a constant at our house from the onset of autumn through mid-May.

It wasn’t until halfway through the summer when it finally dawned on me one day while changing a diaper—Hey, it’s been quite a while since anyone’s had a stuffy nose around here. Glad I don’t have to worry about catching anything for a while. My epiphany was short lived, however, taking an immediate backseat to my concern at the rash I saw on Jack’s bottom. Holy Cow… that’s pretty gnarly. Thank goodness that thing’s not contagious, I thought as I applied a generous amount of Cortizone to the affected area.

Two days later, I noticed a series of small red bumps near my right armpit but thought little of it. Within a week, it had spread to both sides of my body, covering a significant area of my torso. It had also started to itch. Badly. My wife begged me to see a dermatologist, but I was so slammed at work, I refused to take the time, instead choosing to throw every type of over-the-counter ointment imaginable at my red enemy. But all that my various OTC solutions seemed to do was make the damn thing spread like kudzu.

Finally, the itching got so bad that I could no longer stand the sensation of anything touching any portion of the sensitive areas, which by that point was pretty much everywhere—the tops of my feet, my ankles, my calves, behind my knees, the inside of my thighs, my waistband, up and down the left sides of my torso, under each of my arms, on the backs of my arms, in the folds of my elbows, and on the tops of my fingers.

So at night I resorted to sleeping completely nude and on top of the covers. During the day I turned to baggy clothes, like loose-fitting shorts and knit shirts that were a size too big. But such garb still brushed against my rash causing uncontrollable itching. So I turned up the legs of my shorts to minimize the contact, exposing most of my thighs and giving me the appearance of a grape smuggler in the process. I also rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, ala Schneider from “One Day at a Time,” only it wasn’t because I needed a place to park my smokes. It was because if I didn’t, I’d scratch my arms until they bled.

Once discomfort (and humiliating fashion statements) became my twenty-four-hour-a-day companion, there was no sense in denying it any longer—I was a man with full body rash who was in desperate need of medical attention. Though I tried to blame it on Jack and his rash—could it have been contagious?—I had no one to blame but myself. If I had just gone to the dermatologist when the rash first appeared, it wouldn’t have turned into such a big deal. But it had turned into a big deal, and in so doing, it had also turned me into a walking raspberry.

“I’m embarrassed,” I admitted to my wife on the morning of the dermatologist appointment I had finally broken down and made.

“Of what?” she asked.

“Showing the doctor my rash,” I replied. “You yourself said you’ve never seen anything so gross.”

“I know I did,” she admitted while trying to swallow a smile that turned into a chuckle. “I don’t mean to laugh, but you gotta admit—it is pretty gross.”

A quick glance in a mirror that reflected the image of colossal red bumps covering over an eighth of a man’s upper body provided confirmation. Mackenzie Phillips thought that thing was gross. (Multiple “One Day” reference in same blog. Unprecedented!) “And you ask me what I’m embarrassed of,” I lamented.

“Honey, relax,” reassured Caroline. “I guarantee that this guy has seen it all.”

That may have been true, but later that day I still fidgeted nervously as I described the situation to the dermatologist. “It’s pretty disgusting,” I warned after he asked me to remove my shirt.

“You don’t have anything to worry about. Trust me—I’ve seen it all.”

“Okay,” I said as I began to pull my shirt off, “I just wanted to give you a heads up because…”

“Good God, that’s horrible,” he interrupted, recoiling in shock once I was completely shirtless.

Tried to tell ya’…

“I’ll be right back,” he said, leaving the room abruptly. I sat in silence wondering if he’d return with a photographer to conduct an impromptu, rash-inspired photo shoot that would forever immortalize me as the subject of one of those disturbing, skin-condition brochures that were shamelessly displayed on the counter to my left. Instead he returned with only a two-inch needle which he used to inject me with a double dose of steroids before handing me a prescription for some ointment they had originally tried on the Elephant Man.

“By the way, John, that shot has been known to cause some minor side effects, though they are very unlikely.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Acne, but again, it hardly ever happens. Just something to be aware of.”

Guess who went on to get back acne, or “bacne” as my wife liked to call it? It turned out that my rash was an extreme case of eczema, which, coincidentally, is exactly what Jack’s rash was. Medical experts will tell you that eczema cannot be spread from one person to another, and while I’m in no position to dispute such assessments, my harrowing rash experience has left me with but one thing to say.

Bring on cold and flu season.