Prologue | Joe Rielinger

I'm Perfect - Why Aren't You? A Novel by Joe Rielinger

Prologue - Why Some Animals Eat Their Young

Wars start for the flimsiest of reasons. Cross words, mismatched clothing, even simple boredom – all have provoked epic battles, the only certainty that men will find even more trivial excuses in the centuries to come.

Seen in that light, this evening’s dinner table skirmish was just another addition to those well-chronicled tales. Never ones to stand on precedent, my children had chosen to fight tonight’s battle over salad dressing. As an excuse, it was as valid as any. A peaceful resolution would require diplomacy and tact - neither attribute in my possession at the moment.

When they weren’t glaring at each other, my three-year-old son and six-year-old daughter took turns glancing in my direction. While neither said a word, I knew they were contemplating the age-old question that vexed all children, particularly when considering their parents - “I’m perfect; why aren’t you?”

For that, I had no answer. I just knew if I couldn’t broker a peace by the time my wife came home, I would be the battle’s first fatality.

Desperate, I began with my daughter. As the oldest, an outsider might have assumed I thought she would be the most reasonable. Watching as she wielded her juice box like a fragmentation grenade, I knew rationality had no place in this equation. I needed to put a stop to her impending assault, or the situation would soon vault beyond my control.

“Emily, put that thing down right now!”

My daughter, shocked at my vehemence, now had a new question in her eyes. Should she throw something else instead? Emily glanced briefly at her supper knife - what exactly was I suggesting?

My daughter on pause as she contemplated a more effective choice of weapon; I turned my attention to my son. Never one to miss a trick, Jack had set his gaze upon his plate of chicken nuggets - the perfect dinnertime ammunition.

“Jack, whatever you’re about to do or even thinking about doing, stop it right now!”

The truth was, pretty much everything I knew about parenting I learned from my college fraternity. That comparison wasn’t nearly as outlandish as it sounds. Like my drunken frat brothers, most children had:

no motor control, fine or otherwise;
the verbal and reasoning skills of your average goldfish;
a tendency to urinate and/or vomit whenever and wherever they pleased; and
a curious aversion to pants.

While the latter was limited only to my son, I figured the resemblance still applied. When things got out of hand at my frat, my plan “A” consisted of stealing my buddies’ car keys and, if necessary, locking them in their rooms. The car key option for my children was moot. Neither of my kids could drive, though my son had lobbied hard on multiple occasions. The locked room solution was a possibility, but I figured Child Protective Services might raise some admittedly valid objections.

Even with the chaos, I adored them – my children, that is, my fraternity brothers were morons. That being said, I still needed a threat. In the tradition of stay-at-home parents everywhere, that meant my conveniently absent opposite number.

“Mom’s going to be home in an hour. She expects you guys to be ready for Emily’s Christmas concert. If she sees you like this along with the condition of our table, she’ll have all our asses.”

No longer angry, Jack giggled at the word ass. I knew he would repeat it at some point in the future, but I would gladly live with that minor disaster in exchange for getting out of this one. Emily, my six-year-old pragmatist, also calmed down and did her best to put my mind at ease.

“Don’t worry, Dad, we’ve got this.” Her priorities changing on a dime, my daughter stood and began clearing her dishes and Jack’s from the dinner table. While Jack looked disappointed at the loss of his chicken nugget ammo, he grudgingly accepted that fun time was over.

I cleaned up the mess not safely contained in dishes. That included a few of Jack’s chicken nuggets and the trail of Italian salad dressing Emily had shaken without checking to see if the cap was screwed on tightly. The resulting deluge, much of which ended up on her brother, was the match that ignited tonight’s version of food wars.

Luckily for me, the spill missed our hardwood dining room floor, a feature my wife guarded with the same vigilance displayed by Vatican officials toward ancient church relics. I finished my part of the cleanup in fifteen minutes, which left me another fifteen to clean up my recalcitrant and utterly unapologetic son.

In no mood to forgive his sister, Jack struggled mightily as I washed the remainder of the dressing from his reddish-brown hair. Ten minutes later, Jack’s locks now reasonably clean, I dressed him in his best “let’s not annoy the nuns or mommy” shirt and pants. Bringing him downstairs to rejoin his older sister, I gave them the lecture.

“You know guys, it’s best Mommy never hears about this.”

Having inherited her mother’s logical nature, my daughter sounded more than dubious.

“Jack looks cleaner, but he still stinks like that leftover spaghetti we brought from the restaurant last week. Mom is going to notice.”

She had a point about the smell. I would have to improvise.

“Jack – how about you tell Mommy you spilled the parmesan cheese again. She’ll believe that.”

While only three-years-old, Jack had no problem spotting his suddenly enhanced bargaining position. He began to haggle.

“Why should I take the blame?”

The “what’s in it for me” was implicit in his question - as a marketing major, I felt almost proud. We were, however, under a time constraint. I pulled out the ultimate parent trump card.

“Jack – where are we going from here?”

He didn’t see the trap I laid before him. “Emily’s stupid Christmas concert.”

“That’s right – it’s the Christmas season. Who watches you year-round, but especially during the Christmas season?”

He saw it then – his face fell. “Santa Claus.”

“Right again. So if you want gifts on Christmas morning, I think Santa would want you to listen to your father, correct?”

While unwilling to get on Santa’s bad side, he still had one more question. “Wouldn’t Santa be mad at me for lying?”

Every so often, my degree paid off. “Mommy’s job is very difficult, and this would make her life a little easier. Trust me, Santa will be thrilled. You might even get an extra present or two.”

Jack’s face brightened, cheered at the prospect of more Christmas loot. Emily also breathed a sigh of relief, no longer worried about the salad dressing deluge she had released on her unsuspecting brother.

I had survived another day in my personal amusement park. How the hell did I ever get here?

Next Chapter

I'm Perfect - Why Aren't You? A Novel by Joe Rielinger

Introduction and Author's Note

For those familiar with the Terry Luvello stories, you know I’ve had three Cleveland-based detective/noir novels published in the last three years.

For my fourth novel, I wanted to try something different. I’m Perfect – Why Aren’t You? is a humorous look at the life of a father serving as the primary caregiver for his young son and daughter. While my sense of humor has been described as unusual, I’m hoping this is a story everyone can enjoy. To provide the best chance of that happening, I decided to “publish” the entire novel on my website (see story links on this page).

Stylistically, you could call this Dave Barry meets the Cleveland suburbs, a tribute to my family and the city I call home. If that still leaves you unsure, remember - you literally can’t beat the price. A quick preview:

Alan Lister is a Cleveland web designer with a wry sense of humor that frequently gets him into trouble with his semi-psychotic boss, an ill-humored hospital vice president with a disturbing resemblance to Mr. Rodgers. When Alan’s wife, Alma, is offered the job of her dreams, Alan happily agrees to leave his position and consult from home, becoming a stay-at-home dad for his two young children.

I’m Perfect – Why Aren’t You? follows Alan as he deals with a host of child-rearing predicaments he never remotely anticipated. These include:

Visiting the pediatrician – “God help me; he graduated from Cornell. I checked for any tell-tale signs of a Photoshop, but Dr. Ted’s diploma appeared genuine. I couldn’t help wondering if the Cornell Dean also called him Dr. Ted as my children’s future physician walked across the stage.”

Hosting a birthday party – “The yardstick solution resulted in a different sort of problem. While Emily could now swing with more accuracy, contact with the Piñata led to the stick breaking after only three swings.

Desperate and not thinking straight, I grabbed our letter opener. I figured it was either that or a piece of rebar from our basement. Both were potentially lethal, so I chose the least heavy option. Handing the weapon to Emily, I cleared the suddenly more interested crowd of girls well back from our clothes rack Piñata. Wielding the opener like a serial killer, Emily then went to work. Blade in hand, it was like the scene from Psycho without the shower.”

Facing down grade school nuns – “Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact with either nun. That just sets them off, like the lions in that wildlife show we watched on TV.”

Pretending to coach T-Ball – “Unknown in my parents’ youth, T-Ball was designed for kids five to six years old who couldn’t throw or hit a traditional pitch if their lives depended on it. Not willing to have children put their bodies in danger, the sport’s creators decided to place the ball on a stand (or tee) supported by a base designed to look like home plate. The ball standing helplessly in front of them; they hoped kids could then hit and run the bases just like traditional baseball players.

As anyone who watched a T-Ball game could attest, this hope was, at best, highly delusional. While most kids genuinely tried to hit the ball off the tee, the game’s creators never contended with the average five to six-year-old’s lack of fine muscle control. With parents watching proudly from the stands, their kids would hack at the ball with all the determination of a picnicker attempting to ward off a horde of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. The plastic tees took the brunt of the beating; most coaches brought two or three to a game to ensure a replacement for those not strong enough to survive the inevitable slaughter.”

While navigating these and other challenges, Alan rediscovers his childhood passion – reclaiming a part of himself he long ago feared lost.

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy reading the story!

Joe Rielinger

Next Chapter

I'm Perfect - Why Aren't You? A Novel by Joe Rielinger