work. Adjusting my knees, I try to adjust our position only to have my wife yelp and squirm away from me. “Holy shit, it’s huge!”
I glance down at her, smirking. “That’s what she said.”
“Not you, dumbass.” She slaps me in the face. Right across my cheek. “There’s a spider on your shoulder!” It doesn’t slip past me that she could have easily squished the spider instead of hitting me in the face, but whatever. The longer you’re married, the more you’ll understand why she chose to slap me.
“Where?” I scream like a little girl. Even I’m alarmed at the pitch of my voice and wonder if my balls have disappeared. I check. Nope. Still there and looking pretty goddamn blue.
Fun fact. I do not like spiders. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all man, but the sight of those creepy crawling black fuckers just freaks me the fuck out. I turn into something similar to someone who just got shot with a taser, all jerky and shit. It ain’t pretty.
In a matter of seconds, I’m on my feet, and accidentally kick my wife in the vag while trying to stomp a spider. After I box punch her, Kelly gasps and gives me the look. If you’re in a relationship, you know this look. It’s the one that slightly resembles her wanting to beat the shit out of me with a pillowcase full of rocks.
Just so we’re clear, I get this look daily, and while I end up killing the cock-blocking spider, this spectacular moment has also killed the mood. And so, all that insane shit I just shared with you, that explains why I’m sitting on the floor of the pantry eating Cheerios. By myself.
Now, you might be wondering how a good-looking man like me ended up with five kids and a wife. Or maybe you feel sorry for me because I haven’t had sex—other than a few minutes ago—in a month. Thirty. Two. Miserable. Days.
I’ve been counting.
“This fucking sucks,” I mutter, pushing the cereal away from myself.
The door to the pantry opens and Finley, our one-year-old, takes a drink of her milk and then spits it in my face. It’s her new thing. She thinks it’s hilarious. We’re working on it, but let’s face it, babies are assholes.
I fight the urge to grab her bottle and spit milk right back at her, and if you have kids, you know exactly what I’m talking about here. They can’t all be sweet all the time, and if anyone tells you their kid is perfect, they’re lying to you.
Wiping milk from my face with my hand, I glare at the baby. “You need to stop doing that.”
Like she’s going to listen to me. Pretty sure this kid came out thinking I was a nobody. With the nipple of her bottle now dangling from her lips, she smiles, as if she didn’t hear me. That’s another thing about babies. They have selective hearing. Don’t believe me? Say cookie and watch their face. Now, say no and look at the blank expression they give you.
Exactly my point, friends.
With the front of me soaked in milk, I drag myself from the floor and into the kitchen. And then I stare with wide eyes at the scene before me. Have you ever been in a kitchen right before kids leave for school? It’s like a prison yard and everyone is fighting over the last box of smokes. Only in this case, it happens to be the last of the Pop-Tarts. Don’t judge us. Yes, we let our kids eat Pop-Tarts on occasion.
Hazel, our five-year-old princess with horns—you’ll understand soon enough—she’s staring at me, disgusted as she eats peanut butter from the jar with her fingers. The neighbor’s cat is also on the counter licking the jar. “She spit on you again, didn’t she?”
Don’t let the brown curls down to her waist and bright blue eyes fool you. Hazel is to be feared. It’s always the cute ones that will kill you in your sleep. Last week, she put a pillow over my face at 4:00 a.m. and asked if I could breathe. And then later that day, she made me a piece of toast with jelly. Naturally, I made Kelly eat it because I thought for sure she was going to poison me. I’m kidding, I ate it. But it’s bizarre shit Hazel does that scares the shit out of me most days.
Reaching for a hand towel, I wipe the remainder of the milk from my face