Welcome to the Cirque du Pool Noodles

Load the kidlets into your SUV and come on down to this lovely resort. Oh, don't mind me. I'm just a childless curmudgeon who decided a peaceful respite might might get me closer to Cape Sanity. Silly man. You probably won't even notice me sitting near the pool bar with my Kindle and SPF 1000. Why would you?

Ah, here you are, finally. Welcome!

I watch your clan as you approach with a human swarm of strollers, bags, children, cheese snacks, and flotation devices. You blend in perfectly with the rest of the entertainment:

• Infants with chubby legs and wide-rimmed hats who can't wait to be dunked into the pool so they can relieve themselves therein ... kind of like their grandparents.
• Two-year-olds coated in white glop who run around the pool like drunks in an obstacle course while you tell them (twelve times this hour) to "stop running or else."
• The four-year-old boy crying as you drag him around by one arm because he wants to leave and will cry when you try to leave because he wants to stay.
  
• Six-year-old girls with blue lips and crooked goggles who cling to the side of the pool and ask you to watch.
• The six-year-old son your husband decides to toss around the pool like a javelin. Don't worry, it's not technically abuse, regardless of the horror you see in your offspring's face as he flails through the air into a belly flop and lung full of chlorine. What's the harm in a few emotional and physical scars? They build character.
  
• Eight-year-old boys who you have armed with pool noodles--especially the clever, new ones that they can fill with water and shoot at people who don't want to get wet. Neat-o!
• Ten-year-old girls who are bored.
• Teenagers who pick their zits and check their phones incessantly.

Don't infer from my sunglasses, earbuds, and the line of beers under my chair that I don't enjoy your little circus. It reminds me why I had my man-ovaries disconnected. You're a natural ring leader; I'm not cut out for the job. I'd be sedating the circus midgets and locking them in the room so I could burn in peace.

I see you've inspired a woman who proudly parades her baby bump around the pool with a bikini tucked beneath the flesh-colored medicine ball with an out-y. Her children would certainly not act like yours. They'll behave.

Well, that was a fun weekend. Let's do it again real soon. If you ever need a babysitter, you know who not to call.

Little Cesare

Since eliminating the possibility of offspring I've been having nightmares about raising two troublesome tykes--one of each gender. My son, Cesare, is ten-years-old and he’s a tyrant.

“I’m tired of leaving work to pick you up from the principal’s office. Next time your skinny ass is walking home.”
“Da-ad. You told me to stand up for myself.”
“You kicked a little girl in the vagina. What the hell is the matter with you, son?”
“Well, as it turns out, girls don’t have balls, so what was I supposed to do?”
“How about not kick her in the crotch, for one?”
“It’s your fault, anyway.”
“Really? How so?”
“She was making fun of my name, which you gave me. Thank you very little.”
“It’s tradition. The first son gets named after the grandfather.”
“My friends walk around with hip names like Connor and Tyler. I would have welcomed Joe or Bill for fuck’s sake.”
“Language! Your name is unique. You should embrace that. No little girl’s teasing should make you have a violent reaction.”
“She called me queasy Cesare, the pants pee-er.”
“That’s pretty clever, actually.”
“How’d you like a kick in the cunt, too?”
“I don’t have ... ugh ... hey! Watch your mouth!”
“You swear all the time.”
“That’s no excuse. I’m an adult.”
“Whatever. Say, why don’t we stop by the pub and grab a brew? You seem uptight. Maybe it would mellow your ass out.”
“I am mellow, damn it!”
“Right. Come on, Pop, let’s have a beer or six.”
“You’re not drinking beer. You’re ten.”
“Fine. I’ll have a cranberry rocks and be that cute kid all the chicks dig.”
“I’ll never understand why that works.”
“Just leave it to me. I got you, bro.”
“Great.”
“Just keep the monkey-love noises down after you bring the bar slut home. House is on tonight and I don’t want any distractions.”
“Well, what if the bar slut conveniently has a mini-slut with her?”
“Interesting prospect.”
“It happens. Maybe the mini-slut would want to get all freaky-deaky with Little Cesare.”
“No doubt. She’d need to wait until House was over. Do we have any wine?”
“Yes and no, you won’t be drinking wine.”
“Weed?”
“No weed either.”
“You suck. It’s not fair. You get to use contraband to gain access and I’m left with my boyish charm and Pop Rocks.”
“What the hell does Pop Rocks candy have to do with it?”
“Oh, you didn’t know? They’re only the best thing since Altoids.”
“Best for what? Breath-freshening?”
“God, you are oblivious. Pussy eating, dumb-dumb.”
“What?”
“Think about it--all of that fizziness causes vibrations and sensations. Next thing you know, lying next to you is a quivering lump of post-orgasmic sweetness.”
“Huh. Go figure.”
“See? We should hang out more. You could learn a thing or two.”
“You’re fucking TEN, slapnuts!”
“I’m an old ten. Now, how about that drink?”
“Fine, but you’re buying.”
“Fine. Hey, think you could advance me a fiver on the allowance, Pop?”