insurance design

Smoking Charges Ignite

Last night, Amy took Anna, our seven-year-old, to the dress rehearsal for her 2015 dance recital. I was left in charge of Will, our nine-year-old, and Ella, our three-year-old. What follows is a litany of the kids showing me that I exist in their world as a piece of tightly-spun twine, permanently...

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Car radio

Piece of Sh*t Car Reprise

When I was in high-school, a popular song named "Ode to My Car," by Adam Sandler, spun regularly on the radio. No, it didn't. All foul-mouthed teenage boys wished such happy, unfiltered radio days would appear, but that didn't stop the explicit lyrics from making an impact, even if the song's plot...

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Advertise Here

Our actions become our kids’ reactions. Not exactly new. Not exactly Newtonian (pause while joke sinks in). But it’s a truism all the same. If I have to go outside at 11p in the middle of February because the wind …...

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Certain messes in life are unavoidable. If you get a DUI and your hair is sufficiently mussed or you manage to jam your finger into the nearest outlet just prior to the mug-shot, chances are you'll be a big-time celebrity some day. ...

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A Reasonable Explanation

Therapist: Take me back to the beginning. Tell me how it all got started, how you eventually wound up holding the bloody knife in the aftermath of your killing spree. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation....

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That's a Mouthful

Waking up to the sounds of birds and (outside) insects is alluring, and when you have your second 10th cup of coffee and realize you are on vacation, and this auditory lovemaking is real, not the result of an ambitious-carpet-cleaning hallucination, you can finally relax, letting your bulk stress...

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Stupid Piece of ... Oh, That's Right

I'm a realist. I call things like they are, and if I look stupid in the process, well, so be it. ...

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Deadly Donuts

The morning started off good. Four eggs fluffed with a splash of milk, mixed with Parmesan and salt and black pepper and red pepper flakes and slathered with Cholula hot sauce; four ounces of Bob Evan's spicy Italian sausage (sorry for the smell, honey, luv ya) fried into the wonderful concoction;...

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When Did I Become a Pushover?

I've never thought of myself as the Ultimate Fighter type. As a kid, whenever the possibility of bodily harm came up, I tried to avoid confrontation. But if the issue was pressed, I could stand up and issue fake threats along with the best of them and hope that my manufactured bravado was enough to...

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As I Approach 30

I live in a small town. Colona, IL has a population of just over 5,000. As a jogger, this means I am usually only assaulted with exhaust fumes a few times whenever I decide to go outside to burn some calories. But as far as the type of people passing me on the roadside? Over this, I have no control....

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Sad Child

Filed Under on February 2nd, 2013


By Seth Kabala

Our actions become our kids’ reactions. Not exactly new. Not exactly Newtonian (pause while joke sinks in). But it’s a truism all the same.

If I have to go outside at 11p in the middle of February because the wind blew a storm window off the house, onto the car, and the untempered glass shattered into a million (yes, I counted) jagged pieces, and the sonofabitch wind is now bullying me, forcing me to be outside in this horrible, good for nothing but ball-shrinkage weather (and who’s that good for, besides cross-dressers), and I scream obscenities too loudly, I can bet those same obscenities will be repeated out-of-context the next day, if not immediately.

Should the sounds of my lamenting carry into my kids’ rooms, I bet they will be practicing their new vocabulary all night long, just waiting for a chance to embarrass me with an out-of-context f-bomb. Because, well, that’s what kids do. They are the reaction to our stupidity.

The aforementioned story is partially true, in that I didn’t gauge my volume while cursing the damn window, so I don’t know if said suggested rehearsing was happening. But this next scene is a sure thing.

Anna, my five-year-old, spilled juice on the floor. I told her to clean it up. She acted like I’d shot her with a freeze-ray, standing in place without moving or speaking. I do have a pretty serious hobby of jumping into animated villain movies and stealing weapons, but not so in this case.

Eventually, I got her to kneel down with paper towels, and though I had to mime the circular and blotting motions necessary to clean up the mess, she eventually got the job done. Almost.

I asked her to move out of the way so I could check on the mess status, and the freeze-ray struck again. Fucking Steve Carell and his creations. Since she wouldn’t move out the way so I could check if the floor was clean, I again engaged in mimicry (if you want a lesson, come on by the house. Always a show going on), showing my five-year-old how to, in slow motion, rise to a standing position, no hyperbolic action, I swear.

At last, the case of lazy-ass-itis kicked, I was able to verify the cleanliness and safety of the floor and reopen the area to foot traffic, which my one-year-old, Ella, used to engage in her own mimicry.

Ella bent at the knees, raised herself back up slowly, then guffawed, making Chris Farley proud. You’ve got Chucky, and then you’ve got happy/angry baby laughter, getting a joke in on dear old Dad’s poor acting skills. And she didn’t stop there.

Salt in hand, wound open, Ella embraced her inner ham and continued mimicking and laughing, realizing quickly that she had an audience. Even a baby can tell the difference between stifled behind-the-hand laughing and smothering oneself.

I can see it now: 15 years from now, Ella and I will be at the DMV getting her driver’s license. Something will tick me off. I’ll act like a dick. And all of a sudden a trigger will trip in Ella’s brain, saying, “Use your skills. Embarrass Dad.”

“Hey, Dad,” Ella will say. “Look at this.” And she’ll start the kneel, slow rise, end with a guffaw motion. I have one defense against this sure-to-commence horrible event of my own making.

I hereby announce I’m starting a lobbying organization whose sole purpose is to raise the driving age for women to at least 35. What’s that you’re saying? That’s sexist? Don’t tread on me? I’ll forgive your misapplication of feminine bullshit and a wartime colloquialism, assuming you haven’t yet been caught making an ass of yourself.

If I can’t get a universal application, I’ll settle for my daughters, specifically Ella. Those who have made an ass (comically or not) of themselves, and those who will (read: all fathers), I hope you’ll take up this fight with me.

Actions and reactions. You cannot escape, my friends. Don’t believe in soothsayers? Try acting in your home, at your own risk.


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Seth Kabala

About: Seth Kabala
Seth is an entrepreneur, writer, musician, family man, and juggler of balls--big ones. He lives with his wife and three children in Portland, OR.

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