5 Ways My Kids Are Always Interrupting

There is nothing more important than my children.

Just ask them.

No need actually, because they’ll interrupt you before you can finish your question. Whatever idea, thought, question, declaration or bodily function they formulate is critical and must be expressed now.

Percolating, marinating, chewing over be damned!

Like Donald Trump’s tweets, they exercise no impulse-control. Unlike Donald Trump’s tweets, their expressions don’t threaten our national security or catapult us into Constitutional crises. They do, however, make me want to pulverize all of my house’s sheetrock with my head, including the studs.

Here are 5 ways my kids are always interrupting:

While My Wife and I Try to Discuss Anything
As spouses, we stupidly attempt to connect with each other during the waking hours of my children. Even more stupidly, we do this in the kitchen while preparing dinner. We stupidly assume that plopping our kids in front of the T.V. or setting them up with thousands of toys in the basement will allow for some catch-up time.

“You wanted to talk about picking a night to do our taxes,” I stupidly say. “Yeah,” my wife answers. “I don’t think we have anything Thursday, so why don’t…”

“Momma, can I have a string cheese,” The Great Interrupter says. That would be my 4-year-old.

Another time we stupidly tried to plan what dish we’d serve for an upcoming brunch.

“I got it,” I said. “Beer bread french toast and that Giada De Laurentiis fritta…”

“Daddy, look at the picture I made!”

We make a game of it now, betting how soon it will take for The Great Interrupter to appear.

During a Great Song
Without fail my older son will interrupt a gem that comes on the radio. Lately, he’s had a hard-on for flashy cars and can name the world’s top 25 fastest. He shared his knowledge while I was driving him to basketball practice. “The Bugatti Veyron Super Sport goes 268 miles-per-hour,” he told me.

“That’s one fast bukake.” I said.

“What’s a bukake?”

“Nothing. Isn’t that what you said?”

“No, Dad. I said Bu…ga…tti.”

A moment later Baba O’Riley came on, and excuse me, but that classic super-cedes anything for the next five minutes and eight seconds. However, at that very moment, my son decided to become the most garrulous version of himself.

“You wanna know something else about the Bugatti Veyron Super Sport,” he asked without giving me the chance to say no. “They come in blue, dark blue, fluorescent blue, and yellow.”

“Okay,” I said. He’d interrupted the intro and was coming dangerously close to speaking over the vocals. He wasn’t done.

“The Bugatti Chiron has 1,500 horsepower and is…”

“Hey bud, can you finish telling me after the song?”

“Oh sure.”

Sometimes that’s all it takes.

While We’re Sleeping
Kids wake up parents. It’s what they do, and it’s part of the unofficial contract we sign upon making the decision to procreate. Part of it is understandable, like when your child is scared of a storm or has a nightmare. But interrupting my sleep just to bullshit about something, as The Great Interrupter does, leaves me shaking my head. At 4am the other night, he woke us up to tell us,

“My lava lamp is blue and kind of white.”

Half-asleep, my wife said, “Okay baby, go back to bed.” But he stood there and looked at me for feedback.

“I know,” I said. “I’m happy for your lava lamp.”

“Blue and yellow make green,” he said.

“Yeah, I know that, too.”

“I just love those colors.”

“Thank you. Do you have a stock report, as well? How about a weather forecast?”

When I do Push-ups
My double C’s won’t maintain themselves, which is why I drop and do 50 when I get home each night (okay, on a good night). At around 37, my arms begin to tremble and by body quivers. Usually at that point, my older son tries to engage me in conversation.

“Dad, who was #30 for the Heat in 2012?”

Perhaps if he were talking at me, the situation could work. But I physically can’t respond. Worse, is that now I’m trying to figure out who the hell that was as my double chin pulsates. I ignore him, praying he’ll take the hint.

“Dad, who was he?” I shake my head slightly, so he’ll go away.


I quit at 48. “Goddamn it!” I yell.

“Okaaaaaaay. Jesus,” he says and walks away.

I roll on my back and catch my breath. “Norris Cole,” I say.


While I’m Dropping a Deuce
Everyone needs a little “me time”, and I spend mine on the toilet. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t finish that book, and I’d have fecal impaction. It’s common sense for everyone to keep a distance from our bathroom while I occupy it. Then again, not everyone is The Great Interrupter. I hear the door crack and there he stands.

“Can I have some privacy please?”

He responds by swinging the door open, walking over and putting his hand on my knee.

“What did you say, Dadda?”

“Oh just something about privacy. And giving me it.”

“Are you pooping?”

“Either that or I’m doing my best Elvis.”

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Filed under: Parenting, Uncategorized

Tags: interruptions

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    Chocolate Diapers

    I am a vitamin D-deficient former Floridian--who, despite the spring...er...extended winter--loves Chicago. I contradicted convention (and common sense) by moving FROM the beach to the Midwest, but Lou Malnati's and any Italian beef sandwich reinforce that I made the right decision. I also got a wife and two sons out of it, and I would do anything for my family, except miss a Miami Hurricanes football game. This is my take on fatherhood. You can contact me at david.telisman@gmail.com. Thank you for reading!

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