Father- Daughter Dance 2/7/16

My 6 year old kindergartner (the Obersturmführer Bällerinä) and I went to our first “Father-Daughter Dance” the other night at her school, and it was fairly epic. Two hundred 6-10 year old girls all dressed up whirling, sprinting and pogoing around while 200 bemused and somewhat shellshocked dads tried valiantly to keep up with their Ravespawn.

Come to think of it, it was pretty ravey.  The PTO volunteers handed out glow bracelets at the door, which the girls loved. There were long tables wrapped in thick black paper for drawing with glow in the dark markers. Kid ecstasy, in the form of heavily frosted cupcakes and lemonade were abundantly lined along the back wall. They had a proper DJ who played kid rave appropriate tunes. He also announced that he didn’t take requests. Well. I believe the answer is “None more ravey”.

In fact, I think I’ll have to go to the next Parent- Teacher Organization* meeting and suggest we change the name to “Father-Daughter Rave”. Look, I guarantee that there were a bunch of parents at that dance who have eaten fistloads of ecstasy. Think about it- a lot of parents in their late 30’s and early 40’s (I’m always the oldest guy in the room) which puts the prime drug taking period of their early 20’s smack dab in the middle of the rave scene- dancing shirtless, rubbing and licking random people, humping everything. I guaran-fucking-TEE it. 

*I won’t actually be going.

Dance/ rave, whatever, the volunteers did a really great job and made it super fun for the girls and dads. The goofy photo booth was rad, and the Obersturmführer Bällerinä and I got a great picture. A result before we even went into the main rave/ gym!

We headed in and the DJ was bumping some Pharell. There was a 40 girl conga line snaking around a battalion of spazzy, bouncing children and a lot of dads trying to avoid getting racked in the nuts (more on that later). Pretty overwhelming for a 6 year old. Or a 49 year old. 

We got some cupcakes and lemonade ;) and settled in at the psychedelic drawing tables. Whenever one of her favorite songs came on, we headed out for half a song and then she would head back to the table for some drawing and chill time. Those tables were an excellent idea, and gave the younger girls a little refuge from the utter mayhem that was unfolding all around. Holy Shit, I just realized that it was the equivalent of a “chill out room”! Your Honor, I rest my case: None more ravey.

The Obersturmführer Bällerinä and I danced to T Swifty’s anthemic Shake It Off, Uptown Funk, some Miley Cyrus- the DJ was kickin’ it. Then he played the Nay Nay song. Oh man.

I want you to imagine 200 short girls punching out on the “whip whip” bit, many of those at about testicle level. Now imagine their 200 dads trying to simultaneously do the fucking Nay Nay whilst protecting their bollocks from a horrendous battering.

It was the proverbial cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Except there were 200 hundred cats and the 200 chairs had fists, and instead of tails the cats were trying to protect their clackers.

I saw a few close calls and no actual connections, but as i was concentrating furiously on the safety zone around my pods, I can’t say for sure that there were no casualties. You could almost hear a collective sigh of relief when the song ended. Parenting, eh? 

Here’s a few observations from the other night-

It looked like some of the older girls’ fathers had a beer stash outside that they would frequent in twos and threes, tag teaming with their colleagues who stayed in and kept an eye on the kids. Obvious veterans. Well played and duly noted, good sirs.

Dancing with the Obersturmführer Bällerinä was like trying to wrestle with a bag of concrete that has kangaroo legs. She would hold my hands and pogo-twist-leap-spaz using my hands as leverage to jump higher, just fucking wrenching my back all over the place. I tried to get lower and made my arms go all limp, but that just put my face in range of her pogoing head. We found our groove eventually by moving our arms back and forth on a horizontal plane and I got out unscathed. Phew!

The attire was pretty formal- loads of dads in suits and a few in tuxedoes. The girls ranged from party dresses to full on ball gowns. The veteran dads were tres casual in yard work clothes. Not really.

There was a slight pee smell that blanketed the rave. Most likely coming from the heavily overused bathrooms. Again, very ravey.

The DJ played the Macarena. I was glad that the Obersturmführer Bällerinä was in drawing mode.

Everything went off without a hitch which is good because there was a lot of wind up leading to the dance.

My daughter was vibrating with excitement for the entire week before the event, which made bedtime... trying. The day before she asked to see what I was wearing. When I showed her she said “Oh. Isn’t that what you wore to my Uncle’s wedding? Aren’t you going to get a new outfit?”. Dude.

Dads took that shit seriously too. Mrs. Huttsez told me about a dad who was taking his daughter out to dinner first and buying her a corsage. I didn’t do that, but I totally get it.

The father daughter dance is like a rehearsal date for the kids, and as dads we want to show our daughters how they deserve to be treated, you know?

The missus said as much to me a few days before the dance, and I hadn’t really thought about it that way but it’s true.

I suggested to Mrs. H that maybe I should show up late and a bit drunk to help manage the Obersturmführer Bällerinä’s expectations and prepare her for all the douchebag dudes out there, lulz. Mrs H did not lol. 

It was a fantastic night, and I’m looking forward to the next five to come. I think I’ll have to go in some rave wear one of these years. 

That’s it for now.

Thanks for reading. See you soon.


“...the unread voice of a generation.”


I Fought The Stench 5/25/15

Man, teenage boys are just stinky. Like, for real stinky. Wow.

Of course they are, right? What with their hormones pumping madly away, and their armpits, feet, balls, arses and breath.

Seriously, is there a teenage boy hormone dedicated solely to the creation of demonic stench?

Stankosterone? Miasmarone?

Even their craps seem more virulent than your average, run of the mill turd.  The Tall One likes to hitch up his waistband and declare that he’s off to “throttle the toilet”. When his mates come over they invariably DESTROY the bathroom. We’ve got the hardest working toilet in show business. It’s a veritable cornucopia of stank here at Casa Huttsez. Off the hook good times.

I once wrote about his room smelling like a hamster cage. That was back when he was 12- now that he’s 15 (about to turn 16), the sweet little hamster cage has morphed into a full on goat farm. Jebus, but it’s a weird, funkyass smell.


Mmmmmm, goaty.

After much investigation, thought, and experimentation I feel like I’ve identified most of the actively stinky components of the Goat Farm that is his room. Here they are in no particular order-

Laundry basket- Socks, t-shirts and underpants combining to create a nice foundation upon which The Devil’s Whiff is built.  The ones from American Football practice are particularly foul. I just threw up in my mouth a little bit thinking about it.

His dresser- He sometimes puts dirty laundry back in his dresser which then gets buried and marinates until I have no choice but to wash everything in the drawer. Why does he do this? Because he’s a 15 year old boy, it’s what they do.  Also, I’ve found dirty plates in there. Because that’s where we keep our dirty plates, right? Which segues nicely into...

Old food- I’ve found half eaten bits of food in his dresser, filing cabinet, desk, tv credenza, and bookshelf. An ancient orange fermenting in a plastic bag is another favorite. Sometimes a leathery old apple appears. You’re pretty much guaranteed to find some organic substance in varying degrees of decomposition at any given time in the Goat Farm. P-motherfucking-U.

His bed- Even with regular washing of his sheets, blankets and pillows, The Tall One’s bed carries a share of the stinky blame. Of course it does, right? He sometimes sleeps for twelve hours at a stretch, so that’s twelve hours of Miasmarone seeping into the fabric of his bedding. *shudder* 

Farts and breath- Fairly self explanatory, I would have thought. He’s 15. Speaking of farts, his favorite thing is to crop dust me. I really love it. 

Every part of his body- Feet, armpits, arse, mouth, and balls all simmering together in a big pot. It’s like a hearty beef stew. Except instead of beef and vegetables it has... you know... feet, armpits, arse, mouth, and balls.                 Sorry. 

As you can see, these WMDs* that I’m dealing with are no joke.

*Whiffs of Mass Destruction

Now don’t get me wrong, The Tall One is doing better with his hygiene now that he’s in High School.  He showers every morning, and again when he gets home from practice. He uses deodorant, and brushes his teeth. He uses mouthwash. He doesn’t put off any noticeable body odor, which makes The Goat Farm’s existence all the more puzzling. Maybe he’s not using soap or toothpaste and faking his showers and toothbrushing. Anything’s possible I guess, he’s 15.

I have gone to great lengths to keep his room from smelling as if a herd of capra aegagrus hircus spend their days grazing and crapping on the steep slopes of his laundry mountains. I’m a man damnit! And a man doesn’t acquiesce to something as incorporeal as a funky arse smell! So...

I’ve cleaned, laundered, dusted, swabbed, sprayed, scrubbed, and mopped to get rid of the pong.

I’ve tried it all from sprays, to plug in air fresheners, to scented candles.

I even went as far as remodeling his room- fresh paint, new furniture, cool shelving, nice mirror, brand new duvet and linens, closet organizers. The works.

The Goat Farm shrugged off my onslaught like a horse’s tail shooing a fly, it’s stinky middle finger raised in defiance.

I’ve come to the conclusion that we would need to hire someone to FULLY spring clean The Tall One’s room on a daily basis- curtains, bedding, all his clothes, every surface and drawer, the floor, walls, ceiling... everything, everyday, all the time. A Herculean task, to say the least. 

So I’ve conceded defeat, The Goat Farm has won.

I fought the good fight and lost to an intangible and powerfully stinky foe, but I feel no shame. I brought a knife to a gun fight, and the outcome was preordained. Whudahyagunnado?

My new approach is simple- keep the door closed.

I still go in there- we play FIFA on his xbox- so I just do regular-style cleaning, and make him try to keep it tidy. If the funk seeps out through the door, I go in for a big clean and get The Tall One to work with me. No point in using what little time and energy I have  obsessing about The Goat Farm and it’s Hell Stank. It’s just too big a task. 

The Pong Remains The Same. 

While we’re on a song-related-olfactory-reference section, here’s some rewritten lyrics of The Clash’s version of ‘I Fought The Law’-


I Fought The Stench


Doin’ laundry in the hot sun

I fought the stench and the stench won [X2]

I needed Febreeze ‘cause I had none

I fought the stench and the stench won [X2]


The Goat Farm beat me and it feels so bad

I guess my race is run

Smelliest room that I’ve ever had

I fought the stench and the stench won [X2]


That’s it for now.


Smell/ like Huttsez on facebook


Thanks for reading. See you soon. Ish. Hopefully.



“... the unread voice of a generation.”



Tales From The Belly Of Valentine's Day- 2/14/15

So last night- after an arse kicking week of full on man-work, I was tucking the lovely and complex Obersturmführer Bällerinä* into bed when she said-

*5yr old daughter 

“I’m soooo excited for Valentime’s Day, Dad!  I made you TWO cards!”

To which I said- 

“I can’t wait to see them! I bet they’ll be beautiful.” That’s what my mouth said. My Brain thought something completely different- 

“Dude, you’ve completely spaced getting ANYTHING for the Obersturmführer’s third favorite holiday, haven’t you? What a feckin’ eejit.” I shot my Brain a look that said “shut up”.

“Did you get me a card too, Dad?” she asked.

“Of course I did, Wiggles! I wouldn’t forget one of your favorite days of the year. But I will be running out in the morning for some special Valentine’s surprises that only get sold on the actual Valentine’s Day.” My Brain was not impressed.

“Worst. Dad-Lie. Ever. You, my friend, are a dick.” Thanks Brain, glad to see us working so well together.

That’s how I ended up at the Safeway at 7:45am this very morning, metaphorically cramming for my Valentine’s final exam. I was not alone.

The parking lot was oddly full as I cruised around in ManTruck looking for a spot. Before I parked, I saw three different dudes walking out of the store with balloons and/or large bouquets of flowers, and frankly they didn’t look too happy about their impending day of love.

I parked, headed in, cruised straight to the card aisle, and stopped in mid stride after turning the corner- eight guys were crowded around the three Valentine’s Day racks, feverishly jostling for position to pick through the bones of the remaining cards. It was a full on card buying mosh pit. So with elbows swinging and my knees kicking high, I waded in like the Ska-boy of my youth.

“Just waiting to get to the bar.” I said to the harried looking dude who had just turned the corner of the aisle to join us at the racks.

“I bet those cards are about as expensive as a drink too, huh guys?” I asked the lads in front.

This one’s 7 bucks, and this one’s 6.” said Mr Sweatpants Flipflops. Every single one of us gave a wry chuckle and slowly shook our heads, a jury of peers convicting Valentine’s Day of monopolizing the market, and falsely raising prices. 

“Throw in some roses, candy, and balloons and you’re looking at a hundred bucks just to get the day started.” said Mr. Hairy BigLeatherJacket, “And then I’m taking my wife up to a bad and breakfast in Mendocino with the champagne and roses waiting for us... 350 bucks for one night!” Mr. BigLeatherJacket received our nods and condolences in return, which gave him the confidence to continue telling of his Valentine’s budgetary woes.

“So I say to my wife, ‘Honey, why don’t we do the same trip in three weeks when it’s $200 less, and she says ‘But it won’t be Valentine’s Weekend!’ 

“Probably got dinner, too right?” I asked “That’s an easy $150 on Valentine’s Day.” Again- we Brothers of The Rack, we Bearers of the Valentine’s Wallet- nodded our condolences with offerings of “I hear you, man” and “It’s crazy, right?”

By the time I got to the rack, it had been well picked over. Fortunately, there was a good selection of kid’s cards, so I sorted the O.B. quickly. The card for Mrs. Huttsez, however, posed a much bigger problem. There was nothing left but over the top, maudlin shite- “To my beloved wife...” kind of stuff. So, I tried to find the most gag inducing one I could find and I wasn’t disappointed. As a picture speaks a thousand words, here’s the card.


The inscription said- “You complete me”

Open mouth, insert finger.

Cards chosen, I headed over to get a balloon for the Obersturmführer, and was not at all surprised to see several of my comrades from the card aisle waiting their turn at the counter where a beleaguered woman was cranking out balloons at a furious rate. The line was filled out with about 5 other dudes, so I opted for one of the more expensive huge heart shaped ones that says “I love you” on it for my daughter, and booked it for the register. And by expensive, I mean $15.99 expensive. For a balloon. Thanks for that, Capitalism.

Two Valentines Day Cards? $12.98

A heart shaped balloon? $15.99

Hearing Mr. Hairy BigLeatherJacket’s story, and experiencing the fraternal bond of Valengouging with some random dudes at 7:45am at the Safeway? Priceless.

All that being said, in spite of the ridiculous $29 dollars spent on 2 bloody cards and a balloon, they were a big hit. I made Obersturmführer Bällerinä some heart shaped eggy bread (aka french toast- keep up in the back Yanks!) served with some fresh “raspbwessies” and her favorite pink juice. She loved her card and balloon. Mrs. Huttsez got the joke when she opened her card, and totally laughed at the gag factor. I like her.

Speaking of Mrs. Huttsez, I’d just like to say thank you for the lovely Valentine’s Day present you gave me.

When I got back from the store and told her what had happened, she said-

“You should go and write that story as a blog post and put it up today. There’s not a lot going on, and we’re meeting some of her friends at the park. It’s funny and I think you should do it. Plus, it’ll be good for your soul.” 

Thanks Mrs. H, you were right. I’m a lucky guy.

Do something tender and selfless for your loved ones today, ok? It’s the best gift you can give.

I’m gonna go and install a canopy covered in pink ribbons over my daughter’s bed. She’s vibratingly excited. Won’t cost me a penny.

I don’t care too much for money

‘Cause money can’t buy me love


That’s it for now.


Come “like” Huttsez’s facebook page- I’m a liker, not a fighter.


Thanks for reading. See you soon.



“... the unread voice of a generation.”



Yay! Microparenting!! 11/14/14

Hey, welcome back.

Now, where were we? Ah yes, in my last entry, The Incident, I was having a bit of a rant about ‘Modern Parenting’. Let’s do this.  

There’s far too much micromanaging of our children’s upbringing.

We’re all up in their grillz- as the youth say- about pretty much everything, but especially school. Parents today are way more intimately involved in their kids’ education than our parents were. When I was a kid, I pretty much took my report card home, and either faced the music or got the praise.

Because of this ‘intimate involvement’, there are a lot more rules now than there were back in the day. Check it out, this is one of the most ridiculous ones that I’ve heard of-

At one of the local grammar schools where I live, there is NO RUNNING ALLOWED during recess. What?! The reason behind this rule is to avoid ‘falling injuries’. Really? We’re protecting our kids from falling now? Wow.

How are they supposed to learn to pick themselves up if they never fall? Not to mention the fact that kids just need to run because they’re kids and it’s good for them. Right? I’ve heard about this ‘no running’ rule in other parts of the country, so it’s not just because I live in Northern California (if you know what I’m saying), it’s happening in other places. Madness.

If I were a betting man, I’d put my money on ‘kid-has-bad-fall-on-playground-parents-sue-school-and-win-no-more-running’. Way to go ‘Merica.


On to the micromanaging. My 15 year old son- The Tall One- is a sophomore in High School. I get about 10 emails a day from his school. TEN! There are two different websites that you register on to track your kids homework that send out constant notifications about big projects, attendance, tests, grades, quizzes, and whatever else you can think of to track. The logic is this- if the student falls behind then it can be caught quickly and corrected. A higher success rate with less failure being the goal. However, I think it’s a bit too ‘NSA-spying-on-American-citizens’ for my taste. Way too hand-holdy.

In the first three weeks back after summer break, the High School hosted a Back to School Night, a Parent’s Night, and a seminar on the tracking websites. One of the emails about the seminar recommended that I sign up immediately ‘as space is limited and going fast’. Who are these people?! Also, why have a Parent’s Night the week after all the parent’s were there for Back to School Night? Dafuq?!

I’ve done the ‘micromanage your kids education’ thing, and it’s sucks.

You have to stay all over your kids nonstop. It made my son and I have an unhealthily adversarial edge to our relationship. And for what? Good grades? To help him ‘succeed’? In what? Being good at school? Hmmm. I don’t know. 

I stopped micromanaging him when he started his freshman year. I set goals for him that were reachable and left him to it. It’s his education and his responsibility to see it through to the best of his abilities. He succeeded past my expectations, and I’m proud of him. No more hand holding, it’s up to him. As it should be.

Of course, I make sure he gets his homework done, and we talk about school everyday. But really, he knows he has to get his homework done without me reminding him, because if he starts skipping assignments, he’s off the American Football team, or won’t get to drive, or loses his phone. So he does his homework. I don’t need to track his grades, he does. What a novel idea! I’m teaching my son about his responsibilities instead of holding his hand all the time, or blaming the teachers if he gets a bad grade. He made the academic midseason cut for American Football on his own, and I’m wicked proud.

Doesn’t it make more sense to give our kids some room to fail and succeed on their own? How are they going to learn to overcome adversity if they never experience it?

Just so we’re clear, I’m not suggesting we step back and give the finger to our kids educations. I just think it’s all a bit too much. Too much handholding, too much information. But hey, a lot of parents must love that tracking shit, or else it wouldn’t exist.

 Hey! Good luck, kid!

They can go right ahead and ‘Modern Parent’ their arses off. I prefer to go with ‘Common Sense Parenting’ and not use their websites and tracking.

I set goals, offer help, get him what he needs to do his work, check in daily, and leave the rest up to him. Instead of tracking his work, I’m talking to him about it. Again, call me crazy.

Hey, anyone out there ever go to a preschool parent-teacher conference? Was it a completely pointless waste of your time and the teacher’s time? I’m asking because I’ve never been to any of the ‘conferences’ at my daughter’s preschool. Mrs. Huttsez and I talked about it when the first one reared it’s fatuous head-


Mrs. Huttsez-  We have a parent -teacher conference tomorrow at 4:30 at the preschool. I forgot to tell you about it last week, sorry.

Huttsez-  Wait... What? Did you just say ‘a parent-teacher conference at the preschool’? Are we talking about the preschool your daughter goes to?

Mrs. Huttsez- [rolls her eyes] Yes. And she’s our daughter, not just mine. So, if I have to go, so do you.

Huttsez-  Right. I keep forgetting. Sorry. 

[Mrs. H shakes her head and laughs a bit]

Mrs. Huttsez-  So what do you think about going to the conference?

Huttsez-  Well, they never had them when The Tall One was in preschool, so I don’t know what to think. However, it sounds like it could be a complete load of bollocks. I mean honestly, what’s the conversation gonna be like? “She paints well, she plays nicely most of the time, her crayon work needs to stay in the lines a little more, she’s got some friends, she’s good at putting her shoes on, and she doesn’t crap her pants hardly ever, which we teachers really appreciate.” To which I reply ‘“Yeah, we’re really pleased with the no-crapping-her-pants-thing too. Thanks for the heads up on the crayon application, I’ll get on her about that right away.”  Think about it- what is there really to talk about?

Mrs. Huttsez-  Scissor skills? Gluing technique?

[The Tall One moseys out of his room] 

The Tall One-  What about circle time participation and sharing skills? And... other... important... stuff... like that.

Huttsez-  Exactly. Mrs. H, did you get an email suggesting you sign up immediately because space is running out? 

Mrs. Huttsez-  No, but Miss Diane told me to sign up as soon as possible. I see her everyday, and check in with how Obersturmführer Bällerinä is doing. We already have a mini conference every time I see her!

Huttsez-  Ok, well I don’t really see the point. My vote is to not go. Mostly because the whole concept is completely absurd and I’ve got other things I need to get done in that time. We’ll let someone else have our slot. 

Mrs. Huttsez-  I agree. There’s plenty of parents that are super excited about the conferences- that spot’ll get snatched up.

Huttsez-  Who are these people?!

We were vindicated in our decision when we heard from a friend that it was extremely close to the Huttsez family version- craft skills, sharing, playing nicely, friends, blah blah blah. 

Call me a bad parent (and you’re welcome to try), but I’m glad I didn’t go. What a complete load of bollocks!


That’s it for now.


If you agree that we need more Common Sense Parenting, like Huttsez on the facebook. We need to stick together.


Thanks for reading. See you soon.



“... the unread voice of a generation.”



The Incident 11/3/14

It’s time for another Modern Parenting entry/rant, so if you think of yourself in this vein, be forewarned- I’m not a big fan. I will, however, try and refrain from telling you to go fuck yourselves*. 

*That one doesn’t count.

‘Modern Parenting’ with all it’s ridiculous terms and rules, makes me get a little unhinged at times. Too much micromanagement for my palate.

I prefer to use ‘Common Sense Parenting’. Here’s a little story to illustrate my point-

I had returned home from work in time to pick up Obersturmführer Bällerinä (my 4 year old daughter) at preschool. When I arrived to pick her up, I was informed that there had been... ‘an incident’. 

Before I go any further I’d like to introduce you to Miss Diane, my 4 year old daughter’s teacher. Miss Diane is Modern Parenting to her very core. In the dictionary next to ‘Modern Parenting’ is a picture of Miss Diane. None more Modern Parenting. 

She speaks in a ‘gentle’ and ‘calming’ monotone, which I find neither ‘gentle’ nor ‘calming’. It makes me cringe and grit my teeth because it seems so forced. She almost  comes across as either really, really baked, or out of her head on pills. How do you stay mellow in a huge room full of 2-5 year olds for 8 hours a day?! Maybe the drugs aren’t such a crazy theory. Anyway, here ya go-


The Incident

A short film in one scene

By Huttsez


Cast of Characters

Huttsez- Me

Miss Diane- Obersturmführer Bällerinä’s preschool teacher

Alice- Obersturmführer Bällerinä, aka my daughter

Jennifer- Obersturmführer Bällerinä’s mega best friend

Huttsez’s Brain- My brain


[Huttsez enters through the preschool door, spots his kid outside in the play area. He pauses briefly and takes a deep breath when he sees Miss Diane hovering around the children. He steels himself and heads out to the playground.] 

Huttsez-  Hi Miss Diane, how are you?

Miss Diane-  Oh hi there, yeah nice to see you, fine thanks. So...umm..yeah... so we had... [Miss Diane takes in a deep, calming breath and exhales] ... an incident.

Huttsez-  [cringing] Oh yeah? 

Miss Diane-  Uh, yeah... so yeah... we had an incident. Alice and Jennifer were going to play with a ball, and... uh, yeah... Alice had the ball and so, yeah, she umm suddenly decided that she didn’t want to play with the ball so... uh, yeah... she threw the ball down, and umm turned her back on Jennifer and crossed her arms in umm... well... in kind of an angry way [Miss Diane makes a ‘sad face’]. So, uh yeah... this really made Jennifer upset and uh... she’s been crying. [Miss Diane pauses to let the terrible news sink in]. Now, we’ve been working on our conflict resolution, and umm well, Alice hasn’t wanted to engage Jennifer in the mending process. The thing is... ummm... so, Jennifer is going on vacation for two weeks tomorrow, and umm, I feel that it’s pretty important to um grasp this opportunity to practice our conflict resolution... 

[Close up of Huttsez’s eyes as they glaze over and Miss Diane’s voice fades out. A conversation between Huttsez and his brain- already in progress- fades up.]


Huttsez-  Hey, whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa, you have got to chill out! I’m barely keeping my shit together as it is, what with having to listen to Miss Diane drone on about a disagreement between two 4 year olds, and your bloody screaming. So, chill  out! 

Huttsez’s Brain-  [Takes a deep breath and exhales] Ok, alright, I’m good, thanks man. It’s just that she’s killing me with this ‘conflict resolution’ crap. I mean, they’re only 4 years old! And her voice! What IS that?! 

Huttsez-  Dude, I know, it’s like fingernails on a chalkboard to me. And don’t forget about ‘engaging in the mending process’. Ridiculous. I bet I could get those kids to work it out in about fifteen seconds, maybe less. No problema.

Huttsez’s Brain-  Hey man, she’s asking you a question. Just wanted to give you a heads up. Might wanna stop spacing out.

Huttsez-  Oh yeah, right. Thanks, dude.... 

[Huttsez looks over at Miss Diane as her voice fades back up.]

Miss Diane-  ... and so um yeah, I think it would be a good time to mend, you know?, So yeah, do you think you could help me initiate the process by getting Alice to engage with Jennifer?

Huttsez-  Uh, yeah. Sure.

[Miss Diane’s attention is drawn to the opposite end of the play area, where two boys have been playing ‘run round and round really fast in the sand box with reckless abandon’ and heads over to crush their fun. Huttsez seizes the opportunity, goes and gets Obersturmführer Bällerinä, and takes her over to Jennifer]

Huttsez-  I heard you guys had a bit of a moment, and everyone got a little upset, right?

[The girls both nod their heads]

Huttsez-  I bet you guys wanna make up because you’re best friends and Jennifer’s going away tomorrow, right?

[The girls both nod their heads]

Huttsez-  Ok, great. [he glances up and sees Miss Diane moving quickly in their direction] Alice, you say ‘Sorry I made you sad’ and then give each other a hug. Come on, chop chop.

Obersturmführer Bällerinä-  Sorry I made you sad.

Jennifer-  I’m sorry, too.

[As they hug and start talking happily away, Huttsez turns to Miss Diane] 

Huttsez-  There you go, all resolved.

Miss Diane-  Uh, yeah.. so... uh... that’s good then. Well, ok. Umm, nice to see you.

Huttsez-  Nice to see you, too, Miss Diane. Come on kid, let’s grab your stuff and hit the road. 

[Huttsez exits with Obersturmführer Bällerinä]


The End

So, Modern Parenting lost to Common Sense Parenting. I didn’t have to get them to ‘practice their conflict resolution and engage in the mending process’, I got them to ‘make up’. In fifteen seconds. Why? Because they’re 4 years old- they don’t give a shit about ‘conflict resolution’, they just want to make up and move on. Who talks to a 4 year old like that anyway?! Oh yeah... Modern Parents. Feckin’ eejits.

It’s just too over thought, too much micromanaging. We’re raising a generation that will be afraid to take risks because they’ve grown up being shielded from danger, and accidents, and failure. Kids need room to figure out stuff on their own sometimes, to develop their own identities and be empowered by making their own choices.

So back off a bit, Modern Parents! Just... stop it, you’re making a lot of us other parents crazy. 

Look, I’ve ended up having to make this entry in to a two part series- I guess my ranting has found some legs. I’m gonna bring it to a screeching halt right here and come back soon with ‘Yay, Micro-parenting!’


That’s it for now.


Hey, Modern Parents! I didn’t tell you to go fuck yourselves*! I bet you want to go and ‘like’ the Huttsez facebook page now. Right this way...

*That one doesn’t count either.


Thanks for reading. See you soon.



“... the unread voice of a generation.”