Sometimes it's painful to be a part of a family.

I'm not talking about when someone you love breaks your heart. You probably had that coming. I'm talking about how painful it is when your teenagers are fighting and you want to bury them both in the back yard but you know that your wife has just spent so much time getting it to look perfect that you would hate to ruin her day.

As they get older, my kids assure me that they need less sleep, then work their hardest to prove themselves wrong. What they are actually saying is: 'Dad, we are too old for you to tell us to go to bed. We will stay up until our eyes are drying inside their sockets then collapse in our rooms and stay until sometime past noon, making you think we have turned into vampires.'

Even this wouldn't be so bad if we only had one teenager. Unfortunately we have a pair. And when they are tired, they become extreme opposites of each other. My fourteen year old daughter is one who needs her space on a good day. When she's been up all night, she would prefer that we leave the house and come back in the fall. Plus she has the patience of a wounded badger.

My son, on the other hand, is convinced that when he is feeling exhausted he needs to make sure that nobody wonders where he is or what he is thinking.

Duncan: "Hey everybody! Gather round and hear a song I just wrote about Emma.."

Emma: "I don't want you to write a song about me."

Duncan: "it's called'The Girl Who Smelled Like Poop."

Emma: "Duncan!!!"

Duncan: "Emma, just listen to the song. I'll even get down on my knees and sing it to you."

Emma:"GET AWAY FROM ME!"

Duncan: "Emma, why would you ask me to serenade you then push me away with your foot (which, by the way, smells like poop)?"

Emma: "I SAID GET AWAY FROM ME! AND I DO NOT SMELL LIKE POOP! DAD! WHY DO YOU NEVER DO ANYTHING ABOUT HIM?"

Duncan:"Emma, why do you always try to hurt my feelings? People with your smell can't afford to hurt anyone's feelings."

Emma:"I. DO. NOT. SMELL. LIKE. POOOOOP!"

My wife: "Ugh. Teenagers."

Me: "I think if we get them to stay up late for one more night, they'll take each other out and our problems will be solved!"

Two days ago an unknown (9 year old) person clogged the downstairs toilet with a #2 and 8 lbs of toilet paper. Yesterday my oldest son told me abut it. 24 hours of stagnation had turned the contents of the bowl into a disgusting sort of soup.

I knew my duty as the man of the house was to unclog it and that's what I did. Ignoring the risks to life and limb I jumped in (not literally) and put a fix on it. Problem solved, or so I thought.

My Wife: "Honey, I want you and Duncan to come here."

Me (thinking) "This is where I get an "atta boy" and a big smooch"

My wife gently took my hand and led me to the toilet bowl.

My Wife: "Let's take a look here. What do you see?"

Me: "I see that the toilet is unclogged."

Duncan: "I see poop crumbles covering the bowl."

Suddenly, a sense of dread washed over me as I realized that this may not be the experience I was hoping for.

My Wife: "Okay. So just in case this EVER happens again, I'm going to show you how to clean this up because it should never, ever be left like that. Who unclogged it?"

Duncan (looking relieved): "Not me."

Me: "Well, I did, but..."

My Wife: "I thought so. Did you even think of cleaning up your mess?"

Duncan: "I tried peeing on it and that didn't work!"

My Wife (staring at me as if he was my fault): "Under the sink you will find CLR..."

Duncan (trying to look interested and suck up): "What does that stand for?"

My Wife: "Calcium, Lime, Rust. Spray it on the bowl..."

Duncan: "Shouldn't it be CLP? That's not rust in the bowl..."

My Wife: "Grab the brush. Scrub the bowl..."

Me: "Ew. What if it splashes up?"

My Wife: "Then you wash your hands."

Me: "I don't think this should be my job..."

My Wife: "ARE YOU KIDDING ME? WHOSE JOB SHOULD IT BE?"

Both Duncan and I decided it would be a good idea to stare at our feet. I'm trying to show the boy how to be the man of the house but his mom keeps ruining my plans.

Parents, let's be honest here: if our kids understood how we make decisions, they would be way less irritating. I am referring, of course, to the Point System.

Example 1:

Your 18 year old daughter wants to stay over at a friend's house on the night of St. Patrick's Day. She recently broke up with her boyfriend of 3 years. Now as parents, you know and I know that there is no way that kid is leaving the house, but chances are there will be an argument of epic proportions. If she had her handy dandy points chart, she wouldn't even bother to ask.

Question: Are you on an emotional rollercoaster due to your recent break up?

Answer: Yes.

Result: -1 point

Question: Have you been grumpy with your mother, father and any other relatives, even distant cousins that call you on the phone?

Answer: Well, duh...

Result: -5 points

Question: Do you want to stay overnigth somewhere tonight?

Answer: Yes.

Result: 0 points

Question: Will you be staying with a friend that we don't really like?

Answer: Yes.

Result: -5 points

Question: Are you planning to go out on a holiday night traditionally celebrated with lots of alcohol?

Answer: uh..yes...but...

Result: -15 000 points

Now, as you begin to tabulate remember that you are welcome to enjoy your plans as soon as you reach one million points.

This all looks so easy that I would like to suggest the females of the species adopt it so that we guys know where we stand each and every night.

Question: Did you take the garbage out today?

Answer: YES!

Result: 1000 points

Question: Did you shower today?

Answer: YES!

Result: 1000 points

Question: Did you shave?

Answer: Well, no but...

Result: -500 points

Question: Did you watch "The Vow" with me knowing that you probably wouldn't be getting any smooches?

Answer: Yes

Question: Really?

Answer: Mostly

Result: 1000 points

Remember as you tabulate that you only need to collect 2500 points to score (ahem).

In actuality, wives do use a points system, its just not easy to figure out:

Question: Did you or did you not just leave your socks on the floor after I just told you that I cleaned the bedroom today?

Answer: I was going to pick them up...

Question: Did you get a chance to fix the washing machine before you sat down to watch the game?

Answer: I need to get a few parts...

Question: Did you talk to your son about making fun of his English teacher?

Answer: Have you SEEN his English teacher?

Question: What happened to the twenty bucks you had in your wallet this morning?

Answer: I bought you that scarf you told me you liked.

Question: You...you remembered that scarf? The red one with the pattern?

Answer: Yeah, I was in the mall picking up some beef jerky and I saw it on sale...

Question: You are the best man a woman could ever have. Come here you!!

The way it stands, we'll just have to keep guessing. And buying them stuff.

My wife is a true proponent of "getting involved". She believes that it is important to be physically active and she encourages our kids via threats to their persons to sign up for every sport going.

Myself, I am a supporter of the "take it easy" camp. When I come home from work, she wants the family to gobble up supper, ("chew if you have to" is her motto) and rush out to the 'sport du jour' while I want to take it easy. She would like to fill our wintery Saturday mornings with 2 hours of hockey (90 minutes to put the gear on, 30 minutes to play), I want to take it easy. She would like to pay $125 for my son to 'try out' the track team, I really want to take it easy.

Last week we got an email from Ben's soccer coach, saying: "Help!". Turns out she had larynigitis and couldn't direct the team like she wanted. My wife started the conversation with her famous: "How would you feel..." questions.

My Wife: "How would you feel about helping to coach Ben's soccer team?"

Me (not wanting to make her mad right away): "Umm."

My Wife: "His coach has laryngitis and I thought maybe we should help out, I mean, it IS Ben's team after all and we can't just expect her to coach all by herself."

Me: "I thought that was why I paid my sixty bucks--she takes a kid off of my hands once a week and I won't have to coach."

My Wife: "Like an insurance policy."

Me: "EXACTLY!"

My Wife: "Nice try. I told her we would help every single week."

Me: "Take it easy!"

Now I do have to admit that there are many times I can learn something from her, especially when I originally dig my heels in. Tonight as I watched my wife on the field, I learned how to "get involved".

I admired how she "got involved" during the game and stole the ball from an eight year old on the opposing side. I respected how she threaded her way through eighteen other children, faked out the other eight year old goalie and scored a goal for Ben's team.

If I had known that was allowed, I would have gotten involved years ago.

Toby is my dog.

He is a Wheaten Terrier.

Wheaten Terrier is French for "dumb as a stick". If we had known French when we thought about getting a dog, it is entirely possible that Toby would not be living with us and staring at me right now.

I want you to understand that I didn't have really high expectations for him in the first place. I would have been happy if he came when he was called and left the furniture alone. That was not part of the deal. And there was a "deal". You see, we got Toby on a breeding contract, meaning instead of paying an insanely high price for a dog because he has his "papers", we just paid an incredibly high price for him and promised to give the breeder access to him when she wanted more puppies.There was no guarantee of intelligence.

No problem. In fact I was looking forward to nailing a sign to our front door that said: "Stud Services Available Here" but my wife was laughing too hard to hold it up while I grabbed the hammer.

The real problem with Toby is that we can't agree on discipline. My wife believes that you have to catch him "in the act" when he is disobeying. This is nearly impossible. For instance, the other day we were all working in the front yard and Toby was with us. I watched him as he gradually drifted closer and closer to the road (and to the other dogs that live down the street--all equally as dumb). I couldn't say anything because he wasn't disobeying yet.

5 minutes later I hear my wife calling him back: "Toby, come home! Here Toby!" I turned around and saw him halfway down the street but on his way back. "Good boy Toby!" she said.

Me: "Are you kidding me?"

My Wife: "But he IS a good boy for coming back."

Me: "But he's NOT a good boy for leaving."

My Wife: "But he's not leaving anymore. He's coming back! And he's SUCH a good boy!"

Even worse is his habit of randomly peeing on the corner of our pull-out couch. I know that pull-out couches are not the haute-couture of furniture. In fact, I believe them to be the "station wagon" of the living room set. However, having to explain to our company that they may have a visitor is discouraging ("please do your best to catch him in the act"). Even more difficult is finding something that will remove the smell so that he doesn't keep re-marking.

NOTE: Items that don't work include: baking soda, vinegar, garlic and cookie dough.

Until we can catch him, I have to be satisfied with our secondary solution, which is a doggie diaper. My wife calls it a belly band when he's around because she doesn't want to hurt his ego. I told her that real culprit is a lot lower than his ego.

I do have to say that I am impressed with his cunning. The other day he actually figured out a way to rub his back on the couch (yes, the pull-out couch) to slide the belly band back, pee on the couch, then push the belly band forward to cover himself again.

Maybe "dumb as a stick" isn't quite accurate enough. "Smarter Than Owner" may work a little better.

My wife is sick.

Nothing too terrible, mind you. Just a cough. However, this cough seems to originate somewhere deep within her intestine and gather momentum as it thrashes its way up the esophagus and explodes with all its fury through her teeth. Then she starts over. At 3 am.

“Gross,” I say, trying to console her.

“Leave me alone,” she replies. (The one thing that will never change in our marriage is our loving banter.) The problem is that I can’t leave her alone. This is an issue because she doesn’t trust my motives—probably from years of dealing with guys who are shallower than me.

Every husband in the world knows what I’m talking about. We want our wives to get better because it is simply no fun going solo. Even if you have enough kids to more than make up for the fact that your spouse is missing, it’s just not the same. And we can’t express that to our wives—we can’t show any sympathy or concern--without the exact same response every time.

Me: “How are you feeling, honey?”

My Wife: “Hmph.”

Me: “Honey? Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

My Wife: “I’m fine. I need to rest. Leave me alone.”

Me: “Okay. Let me know how I can help you get better.”

My Wife (with a HUGE terminal eye roll): “Puh-leeze! I’m sure you’ll survive without me for a few days.”

Me: “What? I only want…”

My Wife: “Oh, I know what you want and I’m telling you that you will survive for a few days.”

I think she gets paranoid when her lungs rattle…

This illustrates one of the major ways that guys and wives differ. When a wife falls ill, she actually doesn’t want her husband to touch her AT ALL. I know this is hard to believe, but from my years of research it appears to be true. Sadly, it means that she will stay ill for a long time, possibly even 48 hours.

Conversely, if a guy ever feels under the weather, he KNOWS how to get better immediately: get all the loving attention he can. We try to communicate this truth in all earnestness but are usually rejected on the spot. This is why we remain at death’s door, sometimes for weeks on end.

I don’t understand why she isn’t more careful about her health. Since I know the available treatments are not as effective as they could be, I will do anything to avoid being sick. I will eat anything if it has some sort of secret side effect of helping me to stay snot-free.

Garlic boosts your immune system? I’ll eat a clove a day.

Hot peppers kill a cold? Sign me up for a mouthful.

I will eat something so disgusting that I’ll get sick to avoid getting sick. Thankfully, no one has pranked me yet.  (i.e. “New Research Reveals That Eating A Cow’s Tongue Will Guarantee A Sickness-Free Winter!”)

Now that I think of it, if she’s not going to let me nurse her back to health with some good old fashioned TLC, maybe I need to introduce my wife to some of these alternative remedies as well. 

I wonder how she feels about pickled cow tongue....

For years we tried to be wise with our money. This meant telling our children that, under no circumstances, were they ever to play hockey. That way we didn’t have to join the ranks of beleaguered parents that had to pay a thousand bucks a year for the PRIVELEGE of paying three hundred bucks for a hockey stick, two hundred bucks for skates and who knows how much for the rest of the equipment, only to then get up at 4:00 a.m. and drive to a freezing cold arena and get hemorrhoids on those hard, wooden seats.

Basically, we didn’t want to get into something where, one year later, we found ourselves helplessly engrossed and unable to get out—sort of like watching the television show 24…

Unfortunately our youngest does not listen to reason. Nor does he respond to threats: casually mentioning that signing up for Hockey Basics may mean no longer sleeping INSIDE the house led to a discussion about winter camping.

My buddy John went through the list of equipment that we had to have for our grade one son to enjoy the sport.

John: “You need skates ($60), a helmet ($60), socks ($10), shorts ($50), elbow pads ($10), shin pads ($30), shoulder pads ($70) and a cup.”
 Me: “A cup?”

John: “Believe me, he needs a cup. A rink full of six-year-old boys with long sticks and balance issues is a recipe for disaster.”

Me: “Maybe without a cup he’ll learn to be ultra fast.”

John: “If you were my dad, I would put myself up for adoption.”

One of the most important things to remember when going to hockey practice is to go early enough that you can follow the other parents into the correct dressing room, because you will have lost or forgotten the original instructions. Make sure that you dress warmly, or the one-hour practice may seem more like a three- hour colonoscopy. Next, you must make sure that you put all the equipment on correctly, in the correct order. As a tip, the pads should go on FIRST, then the thick shorts, then the jersey, then the shin pads, the socks, the skates and the gloves….and the helmet. There may be other pieces that you have forgotten. Check the big hockey bag you brought in with you.

If you are a novice hockey parent, you may be proud of yourself for signing the kid up, paying for everything and getting him to the rink on time. Chances are you don’t have everything down to a science yet and there will be a few friendly parents who have “been there” and will help you out:

Hockey Dad (watching Benjamin on the ice): “I think that kid’s laces need to be a lot tighter.”

Me: “What makes you say that?”

Hockey Dad: “He’s skating on his ankles.”

My buddy Tim and I got into a heated discussion about Santa Claus.

Tim: “My kids have grown up without believing in Santa and they LOVE Christmas!”

Me: “Mine grew up believing in Santa and they love Christmas, too!”

Tim: “Sure, but now they think you’re a liar.”

Me: “I lie to my kids all the time. It’s good for them.”

Tim: “I think you’re somehow proving my point…”

Christmas, to me, is a magical time. And magic means deception…and tradition. In fact, I stand for a magical tradition of deception at Christmas. It makes for the best memories! And the best stories!

When my nephew was seven years old, he asked me how Santa’s nine reindeer were able to fly as they pulled Santa’s sleigh full of toys. (Brandon was always very bright and I had my work cut out for me.)

Brandon: “Honestly, Uncle Mark, how can reindeer fly?”

Me: “That is a great question, my friend. Usually reindeer CAN’T fly, can they?”

Brandon: “No.”

Me: “But we know that Santa is pretty tricky, right?”

Brandon: “I guess so. He fits down our chimney.”

Me: “He also puts his reindeer on a very special diet the week before Christmas.”

Brandon: “He does? What does he feed them?”

Me: “Magic beans.”

Brandon: “Magic beans?”

Me: “Sure. Remember the beans that Jack threw out his window and they grew into a giant beanstalk?”

Brandon: “That was TRUE?”

Me: “Sure. If he had EATEN those beans, he would have been able to fly!”

Brandon: “How?”

Me: “What happens to your dad when he eats beans?”

Brandon: “He gets the toots.”

Me: “Imagine what kind of toots you would get if you ate MAGIC beans!”

Brandon: “Wow! You’d probably be able to fly right up into the sky!”

Not only was that a great story, he won third prize in a Christmas Stories newspaper competition. (Mostly because he entered it under the “True Stories” category.)

A few years before that I had a bunch of fun with his dad as he was dating my sister. It was Christmas time and we were talking about Christmas traditions.

Me: “Do you guys have a Christmas Turnip?”

Ralph: “Uh, for what?”

Me: “Well, for Christmas, of course.”

Ralph: “No. What do you do with it?”

Me: “You see how this turnip is covered in wax? Every Christmas Eve, we gather around the table, light the turnip and tell each other what we liked about the past year.”

Ralph: “Wow! That sounds really cool.”

Me: “Sure it is. You should ask my folks if you can light the turnip this year.”

Ralph: “You think they would let me?”

Me: “They might be surprised that you asked, but they would definitely let you.”

Like I said, the magical tradition of deception at Christmas makes for the best memories and the best stories!

You will begin to miss many things as you make your journey through parenthood: your youth, your energy, uninterrupted conversations; weekend getaways for two; color in your hair; a cool car; your hair.  The list goes on and on.

The #1 thing on my list is spare change.

There was a time when my piggy banks were full of quarters, loonies and toonies. This was before I was even married. Once the ring was placed on my finger, a subtle process began which eventually robbed me of my cash. First she (my wife) would show me some cute but totally useless item that she found at Sears or Eatons and enthusiastically, through a series of gestures and hand motions, show me where it would sit in our apartment and how it would make our life so much better. I did not notice my piggies getting lighter until much later (possibly Year Three).

Try as I might to refill said piggies, life (and my wife’s devious plans) kept getting in the way: a house, then a bigger house, then furniture to fill the house, then kids to jump on the furniture in the house, then a dog to pee on them (the furniture)(and the kids). In fact, there was a point when we were dealing with so much “life” in our house that I would come home from work and find the shell of the woman who was once my wife.

Me: “Honey, come sit on the couch with me!”

My Wife: (gasp) “C-c-can’t make it…s-s-so tired…gonna fall a-zzzzzzz”

Me: “Nice.”

Needless to say, I was so motivated to rescue my wife that I suggested (via the fatherly tactic knows as “The Ultimatum”) we start sharing the jobs in our house amongst all five inhabitants.

We came up with a list of jobs that had to be done every week in our house and who would do them: dishes cleaned, floors vacuumed, dog walked, useless items dusted, etc. Then we reached an impasse. (From the Greek “im” meaning “She won’t” and “passe” meaning “let you make a pass until you agree.”) My wife, it turns out, is of the school of thought that says: “Pay them for doing work.” (I believe at one time she was a commie.) Coming from the farm, I am at the practical and common sense end of the spectrum: I feed them; I buy them clothes and don’t usually make them sleep outside. They owe me.

Unfortunately for me and my piggies, the wife holds the trump card. It’ll be ten more years before I can start refilling.

This week, we are honoured to have our guest, Dr. Bigbrain, filling in for Mr. Thrice, who is serving time...

Dear Dr.Bigbrain,

Hi. I am a young, married man with two children and a cat (a boy and a girl). One of the baby's toys plays this tune that has been sticking in my head and I can't quite place it. It goes like this: Da dum, da dum, da dum de dum, da doodle dum, da doodle dum, da doodle dum de dum...

Answer: Definitely "The Blue Danube" by Theodor Nugent.

Dear Dr. Bigbrain,

We are thinking of getting a puppy for our kids to teach such character traits as responsibility, compassion and sharing. What is your advice?

Answer: Getting a puppy is a great idea! What teaches 'sharing' better than watching dad take the family pet to the vet to get its shots ($100), deworming ($75) and neutering (or spaying, depending on the vet) ($200). And think of the monumental lessons in responsibility for your sleeping children as you (filled with compassion) slip on your galoshes at 3 am to take the dog for a walk. Yes, I'm sure that getting a puppy will be a big learning experience; I'm just not sure for whom.

Dear Dr. Bigbrain,

I think you were wrong in your assesment of the song from the first letter. The 'Blue Danube' sounds more like this: "De da da de da, doot doot, doot doot. De da da da da, doot doot, doot doot..."

Answer: Nope. THAT song was "Dark Side of the Moon" by J. S. Bach.

Dear Dr. Bigbrain,

It hurts when I cough.

Answer: Then don't cough.

Dear Dr. Bigbrain,

I was watching MuchMusic last night and I came across a music video where the artist seemed to be wearing something a little too revealing. I think that it was Christina. Or maybe Britney. Or Shakira. (I do not believe that it was Carol Burnett) What is up with that?

Answer: The purpose of today's music video is to distract the listener as much as possible from the fact that all of the singers sound alike. You see, if you listen closely, it will become obvious that most of these performers (including The Jonas Brothers) snort helium like drunken aardvarks. Obviously, this cannot be good for the ol' vocal cords and since most are looking forward to guest spots on future reality tv shows, they must do what they can to spare their voices. Soon, each video will contain no singing at all, just a scantily-clad singer gyrating to music that only she and her agent can hear.

What will it sound like to them?

Answer: Like this: "Da dum, da dum, da dum de dum, da doodle dum, da doodle dum, da doodle dum, de dum..."