Month: June 2025

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My Little Toothbrush Tyrant

There is a clear hierarchy established within our household. The order of authority and roles is as follows:

  1. Me and Jo
  2. Moira
  3. The dog (Which one, depending on the day.)
  4. Probably Slayden
  5. Kara if she hasn’t tattled
  6. Logan when he’s not hiding snacks
  7. The vacuum

Around bedtime, however, the list becomes chaotic, and it turns into a free-for-all. Everyone scatters with an agenda that must be completed before sleep is possible. It’s never the agenda I have planned, though. Moira may be the worst; she has reached the age where she thinks she knows best. Two years old. This night, Moira’s agenda revolved around teeth. You see, Moira believes—no, knows—that bedtime is when she becomes the family dentist.

It started simply. I was teaching her that we brush our teeth before bedtime, you know, normal life. She let me brush her teeth, spit a tiny amount into the sink, and we wiped her mouth. “All done,” I said, not knowing how I had just set the stage for future torments. She grabbed a toothbrush and said, “Dada, open mouth.”


I thought it was cute.
It was not cute.

She jabbed me deep in the tonsils, as though she was desperately trying to clear a stubborn drain. Not just any drain, but one from the 1920s, long forgotten and choked with tangled roots and a century’s worth of grimy buildup. Toothpaste bubbled and foamed uncontrollably in my mouth. My gag reflex surged wildly, threatening to overwhelm me. It felt as if my very soul was being scrubbed clean and forcibly pulled from my body. Then, almost as suddenly and abruptly as it had begun, I was instructed to spit. She calmly wiped the corners of my mouth with a gentle cloth and, with a contented smile, happily went to bed.

Now it has become a nightly routine that we both follow without fail. Every single night, I carefully brush her teeth, making sure to be thorough and gentle. Then, without missing a beat, she takes over and brushes mine. But she does it with an intense vigor, almost violently, wielding the toothbrush with the same strict authority and urgency as a TSA agent working during a high-stakes red alert situation.

The older kids observe this strange ritual with a mixture of quiet horror and disbelief. Kara, feeling uneasy, asked if she could “just floss instead” to avoid the unsettling process altogether. Logan, ever the helpful one, quickly chimed in with a practical suggestion, “You should wear a mouth guard,” trying to offer a solution. Slayden, curious and wanting to join in, made an attempt to get involved once, but was immediately met with a fierce, intimidating stare from the princess, effectively shutting him down.

Jo just sighs deeply whenever I start to complain and then calmly reminds me, “Well, you did let her start it in the first place.”

And she’s right. I did.

So now I end every night being waterboarded by a toddler with Paw Patrol toothpaste and a look in her eyes that says, “I know your dental history, peasant. Don’t forget to floss.” For someone who doesn’t even have a full set of teeth yet, she is quite adamant about tooth brushing!

Hope today’s a good one
– austininva

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Ruin Your Day with Toilet Paper Confetti

(A.K.A. Why My Sons Are Banned From Sam’s Club Until Further Notice)

by austininva

It started, as these things usually do, with a nap time gone wrong.

“Well… we were bored. And toilet paper is really fun.”

Now, “nap time” is one of those sacred parental traditions—like pizza night or “forgetting” what time Chucky Cheeses closes. It’s a moment of peace. A desperate gasp of air while drowning in toy shrapnel and snack wrappers. But peace, as history has taught us, is fragile.

So there I was, basking in the blissful silence of midday, convinced for a brief moment that I had won. Slayden and Logan were tied down in bed. Kara was in her room doing “quiet time,” which in Kara’s world means rearranging her dolls and horses by political affiliation.

Then… silence. But not peaceful silence. It was the eerie, ominous calm. The kind of silence that makes your dad-senses tingle. That “there’s either sleep or a felony in progress” kind of quiet.

I crept down the hallway, cracked open Kara’s door—and stopped cold.

There, in the epicenter of chaos, stood Slayden and Logan, knee-deep in what could only be described as the aftermath of a Charmin blizzard. The floor was covered in tissue. Toilet paper was draped across furniture like party streamers at a birthday party thrown by raccoons. A pillow had been mummified. Kara’s dollhouse was now fully insulated. It looked like someone had tried to host a winter wonderland festival using every single roll from the 48-count mega-pack of toilet paper I had just bought. The last one in stock. At any Sam’s Club within a 2-hour radius! During COVID!

This was wartime toilet paper. Black market levels of valuable. The golden fleece of the pandemic era. And it had just been sacrificed on the altar of “Nap time is boring.”

When I asked why, Logan blinked at me like I was the one with problems and said with all the sincerity in the world:
“Well… we were bored. And toilet paper is really fun.”
Slayden added, “We were making snow world. For Chickee.” (One of Kara’s stuffed animals.)
I stared at them. They stared at me. The snow world stared back.

Now, let’s talk about the cleanup.

Do you know how hard it is to vacuum up toilet paper snow? You can’t. It just clogs the vacuum like a backed-up toilet on Thanksgiving, when you had to rely on Chinese take-out. Sweeping? Nope. The static cling alone made me look like I was fighting off haunted dryer sheets. For every piece I gathered, three more floated away like guilt from a toddler’s conscience.

Kara stood on the dresser like some kind of paper policewoman and proclaimed, “This is why girls don’t nap with boys.” She wasn’t wrong, just about 30 minutes late with her verdict.

Jo came in, surveyed the damage, and walked right back out again with the whispered prayer, “Not today, dear Jesus, not today.”

I eventually filled three trash bags with soggy, crumpled tissues, mourning the $22.99 plus tax lost that day. As I wondered what would take its place on the roll, the idea of Poison Ivy for the boys floated into my mind. I set the thought aside—it needed time to develop, perhaps to resurface at Logan’s wedding.

So yes, the boys are fine. The house is mostly intact. But the next time you think nap time is quiet and peaceful? Go check. Or better yet, hide the toilet paper.

Moral of the Story:
If it’s too quiet, someone is either asleep… or redecorating a room with your emergency supplies.

Hope today’s a clean one,
— austininva

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How to Lose Archery Privileges in 3 Seconds

by austininva

What boy, at some time in his life, doesn’t dream of being Robin Hood?

I did—on an almost daily basis—from ages 13 to 15. That dream became a near-reality one glorious Christmas morning when my loving parents gifted me a real compound bow and a dozen arrows to go with it.

At that point, I may as well have been Hood incarnate.

My band of merry men (usually my younger brother, occasionally accompanied by a maid or two—“maids” being sisters who had nothing better to do than indulge in Robin Hood or other historical time-period games) was loosely assembled and fiercely loyal.

All young boys dream of these things, sure. But I was special.
I had the bow.
I had a leather pouch.
I had semi-devoted followers.
And, perhaps most importantly—I had a backyard.

Those three ingredients, when combined, formed the perfect childhood stew.

Until the day I had an idea.
(And let’s be clear: ideas tend to end horribly for me.)

My parents had gone out for the day, leaving the house—and the well-being of my younger siblings—under my capable command. For I was a responsible 16-year-old lad, and therefore completely trustworthy.

Schoolwork was finished. PBS had nothing but boring reruns. So, we headed outside to enjoy a beautiful spring day in Norfolk.

I don’t remember all the details of our outdoor escapades that afternoon. But I do vividly recall having a flash of inspiration:
“Let’s shoot my youngest sister with the airsoft gun.”

Off we all ran into the house to gather our weapons.

But somewhere in the mad dash, that idea mutated.
“What if… we shot her with the bow?”

Now, I know what you’re thinking:
“Bows are dangerous and lethal, you moron.”
And we were thinking the same thing. So, naturally, we took steps to make it safe.

Step one: a pillow, to absorb impact.
Step two: a wooden dowel—because without a sharp arrowhead, it obviously couldn’t do any damage.
(For legal reasons, I must disclose that our definition of “logic” was still developing.)

We tied the pillow to her head. We carefully selected the smoothest dowel. She was even offered one last chance to opt out of this brilliant experiment.

Her muffled “MHMMHMHMMM!” and frantic arm flailing were interpreted, in the spirit of youth, as enthusiastic consent.

So I pulled back the bowstring—only halfway, of course, to minimize injury—and released.

Thwip.
The dowel bounced harmlessly off the pillow! Success!
All was wonderful!

…until my sister collapsed like a brick.

Turns out, a single couch pillow isn’t quite enough to blunt a wooden dowel fired from even a half-pulled compound bow at point-blank range.

As I stood in horror, trying to comprehend what had just happened, I heard the most damning words possible drift in from downstairs:

“Hey! Can someone come help unload the van?”

My sisters vanished like ninjas.
The shot sister, red mark blooming on her forehead like a Hindu bindi, sprinted downstairs shouting accusations.

I was summoned shortly after.

My parents—possibly less understanding than I had anticipated—were not convinced by my detailed explanation of the safety measures we’d taken. Apparently, the pillow plan lacked scientific rigor.

Robin Hood was forcibly disarmed.
The sheriff (aka Dad) had zero regard for my interpretation of the 2nd Amendment.

In the end, no one died. No permanent damage was done (to my sister, anyway). Just another unforgettable chapter in the epic saga of my childhood.

Hope today’s a good one!
—austininva

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The Spanker-in-Chief

By austininva

There comes a moment in every parent’s life when you realize that the inmates are no longer just running the asylum… they’ve unionized, appointed a representative, and now they’re demanding hazard pay in chicken nuggets.

For me, that moment came last Tuesday.

We were in the thick of post-dinner cleanup, which, if you don’t have kids, is basically like crime scene cleanup—except with more ketchup and other random stains, just fewer police reports. I was mid-lecture. The kind where my voice gets very calm, very even, because I’ve gone past mad and into that strange parent dimension where you can see sounds and smell colors.

The older three had been waging their usual civil war. Something about who got the blue cup, or who “looked at me weird,” or whose foot touched whose sacred square of couch real estate.

So there I was, in full Dad Orator Mode™️. Monologuing about respect and consequences and “how we treat each other in this house” like I was delivering a TED Talk titled “Surviving Sibling Apocalypse With Only Mild Parental Screaming.”

And that’s when she arrived.

My youngest. Barefoot, smug, eyes twinkling with the mischief of a thousand gremlins. In her tiny hands, held aloft like Simba in The Lion King, was… the Spanking Spoon.

Like a symbolic holy relic, its revered. It’s like the nuclear football: you don’t want to use it, but you keep it around to keep people nervous. A psychological Cold War of parenting.

But my youngest? She treats it like it’s a microphone at an awards show.

She strutted into the room, spoon in hand, held it out to me solemnly, with a look of firm resolve—like a medieval squire to her liege lord:

“Your duty, Father. It is time.”

I froze.

The older kids, sensing impending doom, stopped fighting mid-breath. Time itself paused. Somewhere, a Gregorian monk began chanting.

And there she stood. Waiting. Beckoning. As if I were the executioner in some 1st-grade Game of Thrones spinoff called House of Timeouts.

I tried to maintain authority. I did. I really did.

But boy it’s hard to discipline when your preschooler is offering you the instrument of wrath like a holy relic, whispering, “Do it, Daddy. Smack them all down.”

I sent her out of the room. Holding the implement of her wrath. She came back ten seconds later, this time with a second spoon—backup, in case I broke the first one on their insolence, apparently.

Long story short, no one got spanked this day, one person got a very serious lecture, and that person was me, by my two-year-old, about “not doing my job right.”

I now live in fear of the day she learns about gavels, or swords, or robes of judgment.

But I suppose I’m proud. She obviously believes in justice. In discipline. In fair and equal spankings for all, as long is all does not include her.

She just wants to make sure Daddy does it right.

Have a great day,
austininva

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The Pooptine Chapel

By austininva

Once upon a time, I went to work. I do this most days—it’s a thing. Well, the funny thing about this day in particular was that it began with me being late for work. Okay, that’s not all that bad. I mean, we’re all late at some point.

No, the most interesting thing about this day was that on the drive home from the hangar, my wife called. I, being the caring husband I am, answered—and the day got crappy.

I should have known something was amiss when all I heard was uncontrollable sobbing through the handset of the phone. I pressed for answers—was everything okay?

Crying, with the word “everywhere” understandable.

I asked again: “What?”

Crying, with the word “Logan” understandable.

I was worried. Logan is everywhere? Did he pull the TV on him?

Crying, with the word “No, it’s everywhere.”

I only have a 10-minute drive to work, so I was pulling into the driveway at this time. I rushed inside, and Jo was at the door waiting, tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked again.

She pulled herself together for one last attempt at communication.

“Logan pooped. It’s everywhere.”

I was relieved. Obviously my son had a bad diaper, and my wife had a long day. I know the two don’t mix well—she was just in hysterics.

I said, “I’ll clean him up. Take a break.”

I went upstairs to clean my son off and change his clothes. My world was about to change—and not in a good way, like I just bought a new car or I won twenty bucks on a scratcher.

More like… I ran over my dog while late for work, and then got a flat tire on the highway, and when changing the tire got splashed by disgusting puddle water, and then little raptors rained from the sky to eat little bits of my flesh over the next three days kind of bad.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. It was a bad one. I was reminded of camp—when it got hot and the wind didn’t blow in the latrine. But this was Virginia summer, so it’s humid, which makes smell 1,000% stronger and adds the effect of taste.

I walked into Logan’s room, and there he stood—a pillar of all that is baby. He turned to look at me, cheered, and pointed to his handiwork.

On the wall, the toy chest, the bed, the chair, the bookcase, the books, the Duplos, the pushcart, the stuffed animals, the nightlight, the mattress, the carpet, the door, the trim work, the window, the drapes, the closet, the hanging clothes, the shoes, the dresser, his hands, his face, his one sock—and his body.

In his other hand was a diaper. His palette.

And the good news is—it was almost the cleanest thing in his room.

I walked in carefully, as if navigating a minefield, to survey the damage…

Then I looked up and saw my two-year-old had somehow painted on the ceiling. I was both shocked and impressed, all at the same time.

After the damage to my soul had been accomplished, I pulled out some cleaning supplies, and we began to clean. We cleaned for a long time—a very long time.

After we cleaned and had a long talk about why we don’t draw on the walls, we went downstairs for dinner.

While our family ate in silence, I thought about the artistic talent my son possessed.

Then I remembered the drawings on the wall.

They were pretty poopy.

Have a great day!
— austininva

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