The American Dream®

     In the two years previous to this, I have had a bit of a make over. Two years ago I was living the bachelor life with my big dog in my little house in Oxford, MS with no real future plans or direction. Today I live in a different house with a wife, two adolescent boys, an infant, and a hound dog. The transition from life of ease to the apparent American Dream® included but was not limited to:

1. Interview for and get a job2. Marry a wonderful woman3. Gifted the wonderful woman's two sons as my wards3b. Get new dog for wards as big dog is old and may leave me soon. 4. Decide to finish up my tenure as a graduate student and write my dissertation5. Look for a new house and begin the arduous process of buying a new home6. Sell the old home7. Find Job for wifey8. Celebrate9. Get word from ObGyn that we celebrated too much and have implanted a parasite into the belly of the wife. 10. Put big dog to sleep. 11. 9 months later be handed said parasite which turns out was a human baby. 

    Now we are in year three. Year one, sloven lifestyle of ease and enjoyment. Year two, transition. Year three, live the American Dream®. We have 3 kids, a house, a dog (pitiful though she may be), and sit around our table and giggle over blogged about home cooked meals. The kids are beautiful and photogenic. The wife is sexy (think russian supermodel) and has a Friday night strut that causes cabbies and construction workers to stop in their tracks. If this isn't the American Dream® then what is?

    Now, if you know me then you know this won't be the end of it. I could complain about winning the lottery. So, I take son #1 to soccer practice last night. I show up a bit early and am playing around with him and then out of the blue I realized I have been duped into becoming the head coach (pending background check). What the what?! I have been a dad for a year and now I am responsible for 12 of these things? If it hadn't been for the look on Son 1's face of sheer delight I would have demurred (damn his huge disney-esque eyes. Not kidding. His eyes are the perfect combination of Oliver's "please sir may I have some more" and Jasmine from Aladdin.). 

    Then I call my Father, here after known as 2pops, and let him know and he salivates at the chance of coaching his grandson's soccer team. I honestly don't know who is more excited that I have been tricked into coaching this group of disease vectors, 2pops or Son 1. I acquiesce and just go with it. Now, my mind is filled with dreams of gold plated whistles and wardrobe requirements. Do I get the super tight 1980's polyester short shorts and tall socks? After the phone call with 2pops, I walk in to find the Russian supermodel chomping at the bit to relay another of the story of Son 2. 

    People know Son 2. He recent told the parents at a spend the night party that he was meant to be famous. Before leaving to meet my destiny of becoming a coach, I saw that Son 2 was cleaning up from around his dinner plate by wiping all of the orzo off the table and onto the floor. This is no good. So, his mother and I agree on the punishment that he must clean his and his brother's bathroom. The story relates to this. 

    Apparently, the supermodel rounds the corner to check on him after putting the flesh of my flesh down for her 12 hours of sleep (what all babies don't do that at 4 months?). She was greeted with the sights and sounds of Son 2 in his Indiana Jones hat, referring to himself as Dr. Toilet, cleaning the pink toilet in their restroom. This alone would seem normal for this child. Alas, this was not all. He was singing the classic hit by Kelly Clarkson, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." As noted in previous entry, he has been introduced to Otis Redding, Al Green, Queen, The Rolling Stones, etc. and we don't listen to the radio much or own much pop music. I blame his brothers Kids Bop CD's (the devil's disco). So picture yourself in polyester coach's shorts with your whistle on a lanyard around your neck gazing in on an an 8 year old in a fedora, scrubbing a toilet, singing Kelly Clarkson. Welcome to the American Dream® as I know it