I think there is something hard wired into men that switches on when they have kids. I like to think of it as the Phil Dunfee Factor, a totally normal man becomes the king of puns and corny jokes after he procreates.

This evening I heard a ruckus from the bedroom that involved Texas screaming “don’t get my spizzy dada!”. I assumed I was not hearing correctly until a few moments later I heard Z say “you better watch out boy or I’ll get your spizzy”. Any thus begins another elaborate dad-hoax that only a four year old would fall for but that requires constant discussion between Texas and me.

This leads me to my next point – since we all know I can’t suspend reality with my child or just go along with these games because I am terrified he is going to be labeled as dullard at school because he is trying to show people his spizzy – I hear myself giving commentary like “why do you believe anything dada says” or “no – dada is not going to take your spizzy because it does not exist”

Either way that leaves me as either a raging un-fun bitch or the killer of imaginative play. Neither option is appealing but try as I may I will never be able to stomach convincing my child he has a detachable body part called a spizzy growing out of his neck. >