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If anyone ever asks you to pee on an electric fence, just say no. It will shock you, and you’ll feel dumb and numb for doing it. I speak from experience, but that’s a story for another day.

Today, I want to tell you about a dog.

When my wife and I got married, we agreed: every proper family has a dog. It’s just what’s done. So, we decided to adopt one from a shelter. On our way to visit my family that weekend, we stopped at a few shelters. No luck. All bulldogs and pit bulls—which, let’s be honest, make up most of the population in any given shelter.

Finally, at our fourth and final stop, we pulled into the Norfolk SPCA. Just when we were about to give up, we saw him. The last kennel had a mutt who had mastered the full Sarah McLachlan “In the Arms of an Angel” face. I mean, this dog worked it.

We took him out to the run yard to see how he behaved. He played, responded when called, even kind of sat. And more importantly, he genuinely seemed to like us.

We were sold. We paid the fee, loaded him up in the Subaru, and took him home. We named him Oliver—yes, because of the orphan from the book. We spent the weekend showing him off like proud new parents.

It lasted two weeks.

That’s when Oliver decided he’d had enough of the “good dog” phase. He turned into a break-out artist. A door rusher. A canine blur powered by Golden Retriever legs and a rocket engine. Once loose, he was gone for hours unless he decided to come back.

After the third wild goose chase across the neighborhood, we made the adult decision: we bought an electric training collar. Not because we wanted to be cruel, but because the remote would let us correct him before he disappeared over the horizon.

I tested it with the little tester strip it came with. Zap! It worked. We fitted it on him, and when we beeped, he gave a little ear flick. The manual said that was a good sign—meant we probably wouldn’t even need the shock.

That would’ve been great. But Oliver had other plans.

While Jo and I were cleaning up the packaging, Oliver went straight for Jo’s dinner plate on the table. We called him. Nothing. Beeped him. Ignored us. Just kept eating faster.

So I hit the shock button. On max setting.

Oliver yelped and shot across the room like a missile… straight at me. He leapt onto my lap in a full panic. And here’s the important part—he landed on my hand. The one holding the remote. The one still pressing the button.

I was yelling, he was yelping, and Jo was laughing so hard I’m surprised she didn’t pee herself.

It took almost a full minute for me to wrestle him off and let go of the shock button. The poor guy was just trying to crawl into my skin to escape the invisible pain, not realizing he was the cause of it.

But it worked. After that, Oliver never ran again. If he slipped out the door, he’d go about ten feet until the collar beeped—then he froze, statue-still, waiting for me to carry him home like a guilt-ridden toddler.

So yeah, $80 for the collar, one free electrocution for me, and a permanent lesson for both of us. Not bad.

Hope today’s a good one,
austininva

Once upon a time, a little boy named Logan began to potty train. He used pull-ups and underwear and he learned very quickly what he needed to do. It was funny when, in the middle of a conversation, he would run in to exclaim to all present, “ME POOP, ME POOP, now yummy?” And obliging, I would hand over a small handful of jelly beans.

While we are on that, someday, I wish for a life, where I drop my pants, do my business, and get food for free. I feel someone needs to make a form of government where the basis of power is based on this principle.

Now, for all the humorous events that occurred during potty training my 3-year-old, this short post isn’t about that. Rather, it’s about the terror that every parent should have with a little boy who is freed from the shackles of his diaper.

My wife and I were in the kitchen, busy moving some furniture during my quarterly re-arrangement of the house, when Logan came rushing in with a loud shout of, “PEE PEE PEE PEE!”

This usually means one thing. It’s his way of telling me:
“PULL THIS CAR OVER RIGHT NOW FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, BEFORE I PEE OVER EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE YOU HOLD DEAR!”

To which I have responded by flying across four lanes of traffic to exit the interstate in 0.018 of a mile. (Yes, I’m that good.)

So Jo ran out of the kitchen, wondering why Logan couldn’t get into the bathroom. She found the door was open, there was toilet paper, but yet Logan yelled more emphatically than before: “PEE!”

I began to worry that he had leaked in his underwear, but as Jo checked, that option was removed from the list. She began asking 20 Questions—a 3-year-old’s favorite game.

1. Did you pee?
    A: Yes
2. Did you pee your pants?
    A: No
3. Did the dogs pee?
    A: Yes, um… no
4. Did the pee in the toilet get flushed?
    A: No
5. Where’s the pee!?!?
    A: Here, Mama. Right here.

Around that question, I heard the conversation shift into something more frantic:

“Oh no… wait… oh no, please no… NOOOOOOO!!!!!!”

6. DID YOU PEE ON THE FLOOR!?
    A: Um…. Yes

My wife then came into the kitchen, sat dejectedly in a chair, and said that I was needed in the living room.

I walked in, and Logan looked at me, grabbed his rear end, and said,
“I Sorry, Dada. Sorry, Dada. No spank.” His remorse fell on deaf ears, as my eyes beheld the newly formed lake in the living room floor. He picked up a single paper towel and tossed it onto the lake he had just created in front of the couch. It floated, for a moment, the unstoppable rush of the yellow liquid swallowing it up like the Atlantic did the Titanic.

Needless to say, it was explained in very specific directions, that we don’t pee on the floor.
I don’t, however, think he bought my reasoning—because he kept referring to the dogs’ favorite indoor accident spot.

Today is Friday. And then it’s the weekend…
16 more years. You can do it. Just 16 more years.

hope your days a good one
-austininva

by austininva

When a woman is pregnant, I’m sure it’s supposed to be a wonderful time. I mean, the commercials portray this time of life as blissful and magical—a time when humanity takes a breath, smiles more, and is generally nicer to one another.

As anyone who has been pregnant—or known someone who has been pregnant—can tell you, that is the furthest thing from the truth.

Your nights are spent aching, tossing and turning, searching for that one centimeter of bed that’s actually comfortable. And wouldn’t you know it? That one centimeter just happens to be in the last four-inch strip of the bed your husband is clinging to for dear life.

Heat and cold take on new and miserable meanings. You will never be comfortable again while the baby is growing. It’s always either too hot or too cold—sometimes both at once.

And your appetite? It transforms into that of an alien. Pickles, peanut butter, anchovies, and chocolate… the cravings defy belief. Even moms-to-be shudder once they realize what they’re actually eating. All the while, the food can’t be eaten fast enough.

If you haven’t guessed yet, my wife and I are expecting baby #2, and the pregnancy has hit full force… at just 6 weeks in. I love my wife, and it was at her behest that I write this post. Let’s be honest: this stuff is just too funny not to share.

We had a long day of errands, and the sun was finally setting. In our house, after a full day out, it’s just easier to grab dinner on the way home. This particular day, we decided to get food so that Logan the Terrible could be locked in the dungeon—I mean, lovingly tucked into bed.

Chores: done. Shopping: done. Ice cream melting in the trunk: check. A good day, overall.

Throughout the day, Jo had been commenting—over and over and over—how much she really wanted some fried chicken.

Which is pregnancy code for:
“We better go get fried chicken now or someone will suffer a slow and painful death, and they will never find the body. And if they do, it won’t be recognizable as human.”

So I did what any survival-minded husband would do: I stepped on the gas and hunted down the nearest chicken place.

Suddenly, Jo lurched forward in her seat and yelled, “THERE! POPEYES!”

I swerved hard into the parking lot—possibly sending a nearby car off the road—but in times of war, sacrifices must be made. I zipped around the building and hit the brakes hard… only to reveal, to Jo’s horror, a line.

To be fair, it was a long line. About five cars deep.

I glanced over, preparing to apologize for the delay—but stopped short. Jo’s upper lip was trembling. Tears welled in her eyes. And then? The floodgates opened.

She knew it was nothing, but she couldn’t help herself. That line of four cars (yes, one pulled away) was the last straw.

Through the sobs, she tried to explain—as only a pregnant, hungry woman can—that life was unfair, that this was too much, that surely not all these people wanted fried chicken.

As the line inched forward and we hit two cars left, she turned to comfort our son, who—watching his mother collapse into tears for no reason—began crying too.

Next in line, the tears started to dry. Jo wiped her face and turned to the menu, scanning with intense focus.

I considered telling her the menu hadn’t changed…
They sold chicken.
And chicken.
And, oh look—more chicken.

But the look on her face as she read that menu said it all:
“Now is not the time.”

We got our food. We drove home. We ate. We put Logan to bed.

Later that night, Jo snuggled up beside me and whispered sweetly into my ear:
“If you ever tell anyone I cried in the Popeyes drive-thru, I’ll have to kill you.”

But I’m lucky. My wife can laugh at life’s funny moments. If she couldn’t, I wouldn’t last very long, because I lead a very funny life.

And not too long after that night, she recanted and suggested I write the story down.

I love my wife. I love my life. And let me tell you—there is a never-ending stream of humor in both.

Hope today’s a good one,
austininva

Ah, the Fourth of July. That magical American holiday where we celebrate our independence by feeding our kids enough sugar to give a hummingbird heart palpitations and then hand them flaming sticks and tiny explosives to chase each other around the yard. God bless the USA.

Now, every family has their own traditions. Some go to parades. Some have cookouts. Some set off fireworks responsibly, at a safe distance, while everyone wears eye protection and a smug expression of adult competency.

We are not that family.

We are the family where things always start off wholesome and picturesque—flag cupcakes, patriotic playlists, Jo handing out watermelon slices like she’s hosting a lifestyle segment on Good Morning America—and then somewhere around dusk, things take a hard left turn into Lord of the Flies: Stars & Stripes Edition.

This particular year, we had gathered the family in the In-Laws driveway for a traditional fireworks display—which is really just a collaborative dad effort lighting things on fire while yelling “BACK UP!” at children who have zero concept of personal safety or common sense. Among our arsenal were a few dozen boxes of sparklers, because those feel just safe enough for kids. You know, like swords, but with the added bonus of flame and molten metal flakes that shoot out at you!

Now enter Logan. Sweet, sneaky, future demolition expert Logan. At the time, maybe six or seven. Old enough to understand instructions. Young enough to pretend he forgot them the second chaos presented itself.

I handed him a lit sparkler and gave the usual dad lecture: “Buddy, this is fun, but you don’t point it at people. No swinging. No dueling. This is a light show, not a lightsaber. Understand?”

He nodded seriously, the way kids do when they absolutely do not understand but are just trying to get the grown-up to stop talking. Then he looked at the sparkler. And then—oh, I saw it. That look. The one every parent knows. The slow, creeping grin that starts in the corner of their mouth like a villain about to monologue. The gleam in the eye. The shift in posture from trustworthy child to goblin with a mission.

Before I could utter a single word of protest, Logan whipped the sparkler in a wide arc like Excalibur itself and took off screaming “FREEDOM!” while charging Jo and her sister like a tiny, fire-wielding revolutionary war hero.

Jo let out a scream that could peel paint off a battleship and took off across the yard, sandals flopping, sister screaming right behind her. Logan was cackling, sparkler raised like he was leading a cavalry charge. Every time Jo looked back, he’d wave the sparkler a little and shout something vaguely patriotic. I am pretty sure I heard him yell, “’MERICA!” at one point.

I tried to run after him… (you believe me, right?) But I was doubled over laughing, and also slightly worried that if I intervened, I might get sparkler’d myself. The good news is, he eventually ran out of sparkler juice. The bad news is, now he knows where we keep the lighters.

Later that night, as the real fireworks boomed in the sky and the kids collapsed into sticky, sunburned heaps of giggles, I looked at Jo—still slightly singed, soul frizzed out from the trauma—and said, “Hey, at least no one ended up in the ER.”

She just narrowed her eyes and said, “Next year, we’re only giving him a glow stick.”

Happy Fourth of July from the Olde Dominion. May your watermelon be cold, your sparklers properly aimed, and your children only moderately unhinged.

hope todays a good one,
-austininva

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

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.

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Have a great day!
— austininva