Lego's In My Coffee : Father of the Barbarians

I don't usually choke on coffee. I rather tend to enjoy it in it's liquid fashion heated up in an old percolator. However, my child thought plain black coffee left a lot to be desired. I poured my cup and laid down in a state of morning exhaustion upon the living room couch. I took a sip, put the cup on the coffee table and closed my eyes for a deep breath. I thought of what that Saturday had in store for me. A trip to the park with the kids. Lawn work. Fixing the door that won't close correctly. Etc. I grabbed the mug again and took another sip...and nearly died. A solid object washed down with the hot coffee almost blocking off my airway. I sat bolt upright sputtering and coughing out a spray of brown. After a moment of spasms I looked down in surprise at my mug. Floating at the surface of my coffee was a little red Lego. Around the corner was my youngest son, toddling away in happy bliss. Apparently the little barista thought a plastic brick would go down in sublime fashion with my morning cup. I'm certainly awake now.

This is the first of many installations about life at the helm of a family of six. I never complain about having kids. For the life of me, I cannot understand men who do. Being a father has given me greater reasons for joy and excitement than any prior years of my life. It's unnerving to think of how much fun people are missing. However, I would be remiss in my duty of being a father if I did not readily regale any waiting ear with stories of levity, sarcasm, and wit about the absurd life of raising little barbarians into wonderful children for the world to smile upon. That's the mission of every parent. Every good one at least. Create children of good character. On the way, we have our work cut out for us.

To give you a glance at the roster I'm working with, my wife and I have four children. The lineup is Boy, Girl, Boy, Boy. For the time being, we have the women outnumbered. I'm not exactly sure if that's a good thing. I am sure, however, that I have repaired nearly a dozen windows and walls across two houses in the short time that Mr. Stork dropped each of them off in a swaddling blanket.

Mr. Stork must've had a violent side. I've seen more projectiles fly through the air in my home than the beaches of Normandy. 50 Cent brags all the time about being shot once. That's child's play. I've been shot thousands of times. I feel their guns sighted on me now. If I don't finish this sentence just know I went out doing what I love : writing in my home before a hail of Nerf bullets sent me from this life into the next. These kids set up ambushes against me like it's Vietnam. I step into a room to find it's been booby trapped with jumbo Jenga blocks. They're stacked meticulously in a tower by the door and clatter to the ground as I walk through. I back away, wide eyed, as a platoon of pajama'd heathens spring out of nowhere. One crawls from under the bed. One pops out of a drawer I didn't know he could fit in. Another bursts through the closet door. The last of my assassins flanks the enemy from the upstairs bathroom. They shout "Attack!" and open fire on their own father. Their shrill cries of bloodthirsty victory give testament to their merciless nature. I never stood a chance. My body is riddled with bullets. I retreat to save my skin.

When they're not reliving the fall of Saigon, they're bringing the Bible to life. In our case, David and Goliath. They cast me as the great Philistine. Hurling acorns at Mach 5, they make a real attempt at beheading their old man. Thank God I never gave them a slingshot. My oldest must throw harder than I did as a college baseball player. At least it feels like it when a ripe, brown acorn pops the front of my forehead leaving a red welt the size of a quarter. I'll go the rest of the week looking like I tried to kiss a golf ball at a driving range.

An effective war can also be waged using chemicals. The boys in particular take a page right out of the World War I playbook. After building trenches around my living room they'll wind their way through tunnels to engage the enemy. This time I'm not alone. I've recruited the Belgians to help me. A Belgian Malinois we bought named Luke. He's not pleased to be a part of this war. My canine unit heads for the bedroom at the first shots. When I went to the bedroom to check on the dog, my youngest son walked in with a large smile on his face. I asked what was so funny. He grinned saying, "I just stunk up the hallway." Then he was gone. But the smell was not. When they're not gassing me out of a bunker, they're also waging chemical warfare on my canine unit. They routinely fart on the dog and run away laughing.

The boys find it endlessly funny to 'gas out' any room they're in. This includes the car. And it doesn't exclude the public. I've been in stores, restaurants, schools and birthday parties that resulted in noxious gases being unleashed upon the public in terrorist fashion. Their odor jihad has even hit houses of worship. I was in Mass the other Sunday when my youngest giggled during complete silence and said, "I just farted like sixteen times." This brought waves of seizure-like silent laughter from his siblings and now dad is struggling against the tide of snickers as well. Old ladies scowl. Surrounding dads lower their heads to hide their own smiles. The boys win this round.

My youngest is also a fan of the time honored Japanese tactic of Kamakazi warfare. He'll climb into my lap like he's about to give snuggles, sit comfortably on my lap and then unleash a fart capable of leveling a bunker. I can feel my femur rupture beneath the typhoon wind. The smell doesn't bother him. He doesn't mind the fact that the odor could rust an oil tanker out of commission. He basks in its hideous rank until his fit of laughter and my fit of gags finally subsides and then moves on to take out another target.

Sometimes, direct action against a foe doesn't do the trick. That's when a strategic sabotage can come in handy. My wife and I woke up one morning to brush our teeth and start the day. Upon opening the jar of floss sticks, we found all thirty of them had the floss cut in half and each stick was carefully replaced. We stood in a morning-time stupor wondering when they performed this twilight raid.

The war wages. The casualties mount. One day I know the war will end. The battlegrounds will be as silent as Gettysburg and Iwo Jima. In those moments I'll long for the chaos once more. The giggle of little mess making, farting, savage children sprinting around every corner of the house. In the moment, the fatigue is real. And so is the joy.