So, therapist, I pray that this letter was unnecessary and that their asses have not graced your couch because the sweetness I’ve seen from Natalia as she’s gotten older has continued and Sonny has remained as mellow as ever. But if not, then I hope it cleared up a few of the misconceptions or straight-up lies that you might be hearing in therapy about dear old dad. My wish is that they regard me as firm but fair. But if the twins are in therapy, the one thing I hope they don’t say is, “He did his best.” That’s a tell that you had a shitty dad. It’s the lowest grade you can give a parent without completely disowning them as drunken abusive assholes. If either Sonny or Natalia are telling you that I did my best, then all the defending I’ve done of myself is useless. But, rest assured, if they are at least halfway functioning people it’s because every good thing they’ve said about their mother is completely true.
CHAPTER 5
IT ISN’T THAT I don’t try to be a good dad. I get involved with their lives to the best of my ability. Sure, I’m not the kind of dad who lets his daughter put makeup on him or gets down on the floor to bust out the gluten-free Play-Doh with his kids. But I do make an effort. It is just that every time I’ve tried to engage with the kids, it has blown up in my face.
My first mistake was reading to them. I’m not a great reader (which I’ve, ironically, written about in my other three books), so it’s an embarrassing chore. When someone wearing a Curious George onesie is correcting you on your grammar, it’s time to take a long hard look in the mirror. I’ve always been a terrible reader. I was never formally diagnosed with any reading disability. I was tested for dyslexia and passed. It’s one of the few tests I wish I had failed. At least that would be an answer as to why I couldn’t read the back of a cereal box when I was a kid.
People always said to me, “You must have been dyslexic.” I wasn’t. Why is it that when a white kid can’t read people say he’s dyslexic but when a black kid can’t read people say he “fell through the cracks.” This is a racist thought. I was as white as they come, and I fell through the cracks known as my parents and the Los Angeles school system. That said, Dyslexia would make a great black name. Sounds like a good wide out for the Steelers.
The problem is that I went to a crappy free-range hippie school where we were taught more about hating Nixon than loving the alphabet. Then I spent years doing construction with addicts and idiots and the latest tome from John Irving didn’t really come up around the hose that was our water cooler. In fact, on a construction site being educated could be a hindrance. You’d be mocked mercilessly. “Hey, Alex Trebek, why don’t you use that giant brain of yours to figure out the nailing schedule on that shear wall.”
When I was in the sixth grade, I had to go up to the chalkboard and write the Phys Ed schedule. I had to put the girls in one column and the boys in the other. I spelled girls with a U. Gurls. That was the end for me. So reading has always had not just a physical, but an emotional barrier, too. It makes me feel like crap. Thus, reading to my kids was a tough putt. But I powered through. And I’ll tell you what I learned. All those years of not reading were worth it. Kids’ books are some of the worst pieces of shit ever committed to the page.
One of the books I was tasked with reading to Sonny when he was around five was Danny and the Dinosaur.
This piece of shit was written in 1952. You can tell right away, because the kid on the cover is blond and white, as are all of his friends in the book. Today, it would have to be a multicultural rainbow and there’d have to be a kid with leg braces or a wheelchair. But the kids in this book looked like Hitler Youth.
I tried to have a moment and not judge, and just enjoy doing something Sonny liked. Like all little boys, he loved dinosaurs. But I barely made it past the title. It’s shitty alliteration. That’s the first strike. And it doesn’t rhyme. Strike two. Strikes three through twenty-eight were the writing. After Danny rides the dinosaur out of the museum, a dog barks at him. Here’s a true quote from the book: “ ‘Bow wow!’ said a dog. ‘Go away, dog. We are not a car,’ said Danny.”
I feel like anyone could write that book. You could figure out exactly how long it took to compose by dividing the number of words it contains by the word per minute count of the author’s typing test. There is nothing complex or interesting about this story. At all. It would barely count as a first draft.
But buckle up for the big ending. There’s a message to be sent. The other children leave and the dinosaur says he has to go back to the museum, but he had a good time with Danny. Danny walks away and goes home. Wow. I’m telling you, that is some Breaking Bad—level plot twisting right there. That’s not an ending. That’s just the place where the author stopping writing. That book ended because the writer needed to take a leak.
The good news is that I don’t think Sonny liked it either. But then again, I did read with so much disdain in my voice, I didn’t really sell it.
People always tell me not to care about how bad children’s books and cartoons are, but kids absorb this stuff. Parents are told that exposing their children to the arts and to classical music helps with brain development. Kids suck up stuff like sponges, right? Would you rather your kids’ spongy brains soak up Mozart, or Flo-Rida? Why not go for some higher-quality books while you’re at it?
One book I had to read the kids, that did rhyme, was Who Took the Cookie from the Cookie Jar? This was one Natalia wanted. They adapted it from a kids’ playground song. The first page was the phrase “Who took the cookies from the cookie jar?” repeated three times. Then a skunk spends the next ten pages accusing lizards, mice, raccoons, frogs and other creatures of taking the cookies. Spoiler alert, it turns out it was the ants. But after they get caught, the ants share the cookies. This book goes nowhere and sends a terrible message about theft. So, kids, if you get caught shoplifting a couple iPhone cases, just offer to share them with the mall security guard and everyone will be happy.
Here’s the thing that really bothered me about this particular book. I can almost give a pass on shitty writing if the person also illustrated their own story. Okay, maybe you’re a hack writer, but at least you can draw. But this book was written by not one, but two people — Bonnie Lass and Philemon Sturges — and illustrated by a third, Ashley Wolff. Is this actually a three-person job? I’m the only one required to make a literal shit; why does it take three people to produce a literary shit?
So my answer to the question “Who took the cookies from the cookie jar?” is WHO GIVES A FUCK?! What was really taken was fifteen minutes from my life that I would like back.
The worst of them all is Where the Wild Things Are. This beloved tome has probably sold two zillion copies worldwide over the last forty-five years. Like all parents, I had to read this garbage to my kids. As with all the other kids’ books I’ve been bashing, this is a story about nothing, it goes nowhere and it doesn’t even rhyme. Credit where credit is due, the illustration is great, but the words you could write in less than an afternoon.
Those of you who doubt me and wax nostalgic about this book, please read it again and tell me if it’s not a pile of shit, or originally written in Hungarian and poorly translated. Because it seems very strange.
And like the ants in the cookie jar book there is a negative message in Where the Wild Things Are, too. The kid is being a little shit, even chasing the dog around with a fork, and is thus sent to bed without supper (which, by the way, parents don’t get to do anymore. They’d have child protective services called on them). So he’s in his room, apparently drops some peyote, floats out the window and goes to a magical place inhabited by some enormous creatures that don’t really seem to bother him. They make him their king, but he splits, even though they wanted him to stay and when he gets back from his acid trip his food was waiting for him. Message received. Be a total asshole to your parents, and then abandon your friends. No problem. There won’t be any consequences.