Can't slay this dragon

Growing up in a very Catholic neighborhood large families were a reality.

We had six kids but I had relatives and friends with many more, the maximum that I was aware was 14, and not the blended “Brady-bunch” kind, all flesh and blood.

It is possible that one explanation was the infamous “rhythm-method” where periodic abstinence was touted as the alternative to carnal desires and artificial birth control methods were considered evil.

Forbidden fruit has been the downfall of mankind since day one. The bishops should have known better, or possibly there was a “Master Plan”, keep it on the down low so the laity will keep filling the pews and the clergy will always have jobs!

We had decided to settle on a smaller brood, (2 max) but looking back this was a big mistake.

If I could commandeer a way-back machine, and start afresh, I would certainly make every effort to convince the Mrs. of the benefits of a large family. I would wish to hold a record so large it bumps the 5:15 pm dog story on local television news each evening.

I know there still exist 1960’s hippie types who will lecture me about over-population, the survival of the planet and then start finger wagging at my own selfishness.

I will admit there is a very personal reason for my desire, but I truly believe a larger family is crucial to survival, mine!

All men in a committed for life relationship should properly plan that he move-on beyond this earthly existence at just the right moment, namely when you finally place the belongings of the last of the brood on the front lawn with a “see ya around sometime” note attached.

When the last of the loin-produced leave, plan to be at least 90 years old or more. Make that family really big!

And you wonder why I say this?

The dream of the empty nest and the joy of discovering each other anew again are certainly not based in any reality.

What occurs when that final little bird sprouts wings and moves on is an almost immediate discovery that when something happens around the house a dragoness awakens, breathing fire, wagging her spiky tail and ready to pounce on the one who did something wrong.

Without a kid around to blame, that would be me!

Not only do you have to start denying everything (“I didn’t break it, it was probably an earthquake”) you also get hourly life-lessons, those little moments (usually when you’re napping), where the dragoness has a show-and-tell explaining the correct way to load a dishwasher, close a zip lock bag, or demonstrate how to properly fold everything.

Without kid distractions, and having too many available moments for thought, honey-do lists grow to epic proportions.

They usually pertain to repairs that require a real contractor (and big $) and not you and your little Phillips-head screwdriver and a how-to video on youtube.

You cannot even think about retreating to the safety of a man-cave. If you had no privacy with a house full of teens, constant hands outstretched awaiting car keys and cash, you have no hope hiding from an angry dragoness.

My suggestion is try bringing home a puppy.

You can relax on the lay-z-boy, point to the hound and claim, “it wasn’t me who ate those cookies” it was the pooch!

Just be certain you wiped off your mouth first.

P.S. No dragoness was injured during the making of this blog.