I was tying away on the laptop yesterday while sitting on the couch. Will was on the floor flipping through a book. Suddenly he glanced up at me and smiled, and then began pointing excitedly and shouting “Pezza, pezza!”

At first I thought he was asking for pizza, so I went to the fridge because I thought he might be hungry. But as soon as I stood up he immediately started saying “No dadda, no.” It took a few more rounds of me asking him what the hell he was saying before I figured out he was trying to say “pencil,” and reaching for the pen I had behind my ear. I figured because he’s become so fond of drawing and painting lately he wanted to hone his skills, so I got him some paper.

But he wasn’t interested in drawing. Instead, he took my pen and promptly wedged it behind his right ear. And then he flashed me the widest goddamn grin, pointed to the pen and said “See? Like Dadda.”

Apparently he wants to be overworked, underpaid and see all the fruits of his labor get hijacked by online news aggregators who steal content and give it away for free.

But seriously, it’s overwhelming and flattering when your son copies you. We all know how religious I am, and Genesis states, “God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him.” Of course, in that scenario I’d be comparing myself to the Almighty, which I think we can all agree is pretty accurate. But if you doubt my abilities as Creator, you could also draw parallels to Frankenstein’s Monster. Then again I’d be a mad scientist and Will would be the grossly disfigured, 7-foot-tall reanimated corpse. He is a pretty big kid, so maybe I’m onto something.

Either way, there’s this little being in my house who I am in charge of shaping and molding. And for some reason (most likely because I’m one of two adults he sees on a regular basis) he is going to strive to be like me and act like me. Just like I derived so much of who I am from my father, I now have a 3-foot-tall toddler who’s copying my every move. And this time, instead of repeating an errant swear I accidentally let loose, he was doing something incredibly cute and heart-warming. And in that moment, me looking at him and him smiling back at me, I was nearly moved to tears by the enormity of it all.

Then he threw the pen at me.

Oh well, I’ll take my moments however I can get ‘em.

I was surprised because he told me he doesn’t take showers unless his daughter is napping during the day.

I’m totally on the other end of that spectrum. I take a shower first thing in the morning and I let Will have free reign of the house, because MJ is already gone. I used to keep him contained in the bathroom but when he learned how to open doors and turn knobs, there was nothing to stop him. That and he broke our baby gate.

He questioned how I could leave Will to his own devices for that long. Now granted, we live in a ranch style home so there are no stairs for Will to fall down. And I told him we babyproofed the house enough that Will can’t really get into anything that can hurt him. Hell, usually he just pops in and out of the bathroom saying “Hi Dadda” or he watches Mickey Mouse on TV. Honestly, Will is pretty good and can entertain himself without getting into too much trouble. And when I told the other dad this, he was very impressed. And I, being extremely competitive, felt pretty damn good about myself and my parenting ability.

Then came this morning.

I took my shower, as usual, and turned on the TV for Will. Usually when I shut off the water in the shower he runs right in and says “Dadda, out!” But when I turned off the shower this time, I heard nothing. I called out his name, but received no response. Worried, I rushed out sopping wet wrapped in just a towel to my bedroom. The TV was on but no Will. Quickly gearing up toward a full blown panic, I ran out into the hallway and into the living room. And that’s when I saw it.

Will was standing up on the couch. He had a stainless steel pot on his head, and was holding a fork in one hand and a hammer in the other. He looked like some sort of whacked out handyman superhero, the only thing missing was his cape.

“Hi Dadda,” he said, as if nothing peculiar was happening.

I still don’t know how he got the hammer. I really don’t. I have no clue where it could’ve been stored that it was within his reach. When I realized he was OK, I started looking around for collateral damage he may have inflicted upon the walls or our furniture, because he loves swinging things. And a swinging hammer might put a hole in the wall. Or a cat, which wouldn’t be so bad.

Needless to say, I’m no longer planning to brag to other parents about Will’s self-sufficient nature or my own parenting skills. But if he does become a hammer-wielding superhero, you better believe I’m taking all the credit.

Puke. Everywhere.

Will threw up all over the crib. And the sheets. Not to mention all over himself to boot. It looked like a crime scene. And if we learned anything from the time I stepped in Will’s crap, it’s that I don’t fare well when exposed to bodily fluids. So I did what any good dad would do: I put my screaming child back down in his vomit covered crib and woke my wife up.

I wasn’t a total ass. I stripped him down and gave him a bath while MJ removed all his bedding and cleaned up the crib. But unfortunately he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

He proceeded to upchuck every 45 minutes for the next 5 hours. And did I mention he was in our bed because we were concerned about him? That meant having a plethora of towels at the ready, all draped around him to catch any splatter. The poor guy would fall asleep for short stints, but even though I tried to catch some shuteye it was not to be. Because every time he moved or coughed, I shot up like a rocket and reached for the towel while simultaneously swinging my feet over the side of the bed to escape the potential projectile vomit. One time I jerked up so suddenly I wrenched my back.

After a few hours he had nothing left to throw up, and he was just dry heaving. It broke my heart. So I called in sick to work to stay home with him, and he improved. Or so I thought.

When he hadn’t thrown up for 6 hours I gave him a little yogurt and some milk, because he was begging for it. And he kept it down…for an hour. At 3:30 p.m. I was sitting next to him on the couch and I heard an all-too-familiar grumbling sound, that quickly turned to a wet sounding hack. Like lightning I reached for the towel and got it up to his mouth just in time for him to expel a steady stream of half-digested yogurt and milk. Except it was so fluid it just ran down the towel like a kid going down a water slide. It went on the couch, it went on Will and it got on me.

My poor son sat there, face contorted in agony, looking at me for comfort. So I did what I always do when someone close to me gets sick.

I threw up in my mouth.

Will had a few more aftershocks as I ran to the sink and tried not to lose my lunch right there on the living room floor. I cleaned up the couch, Will and myself but not before nearly puking a second time. Will didn’t throw up again, but instead it started coming out the other end. He traded projectile vomiting for explosive diarrhea. I’m not kidding either, you could hear him exploding from across the room. Since then he’s improved steadily on a diet of water, Pedialyte and Kix.

I, however, and still very much scarred.

I won’t say it got heated, but a commenter named “Fuck You” advised the author to “leave his crotchfruit at home.”

There are really two factions doing battle concerning this issue. On one side you have drunk people at the bar. They want to get plastered without dealing with children. Hell, half of them probably came to the bar to escape their own offspring. They want to smoke outside and not feel guilty when strollers go in and out of the bar. And if someone is going to be crying, screaming and vomiting, they want it to be them and not a kid.

But young parents see it a different way. They see nothing wrong with having 1-2 beers at a family-friendly watering hole. As long as their kids aren’t creating a disturbance and they’re not getting sloppy drunk, why shouldn’t parents be able to get together at a local bar and shoot the shit over a pint?

I don’t think it comes as a surprise to anyone, but I see nothing wrong with it.

In fact, I took Will to an Irish bar called Tommy Doyle’s in Hyannis on Wednesday night. It’s not the first time he’s been there either. I was meeting a group of friends to celebrate a buddy’s birthday and the bar is on the way home from work for MJ. It was 5:30 p.m. and the bar was sparsely populated to say the least. We were there for about an hour, during which time Will said hi to everyone, hit lots of buttons on the Big Game Hunter video game and randomly played “Whiskey in a Jar” on the jukebox (for which I was immensely proud).

He screeched a couple of times at which point I took him in the other room and told him to quiet down. He ran around a little bit but was never out of control. I got one dirty look from a 50-something uptight bitch, but other than that everyone was very accommodating and gracious. He was out of there by 6:30, well before the bar got crowded, and that was it.

Some jackasses critics out there claim kids don’t belong at bars. Period. End of discussion. They think once you become a parent you should stop “clinging to youth” and, I don’t know, go do “parent things.” Instead of killing brain cells the old fashioned way, they want our minds to turn to mush while listening to the strains of Capt. Feathersword and The Wiggles singing Fruit Salad. Because shit, once you’re a parent you lose the need for adult contact. You should suddenly ignore the happiness you once derived from simply sitting with people who aren’t in diapers and sharing a cocktail. If you have a baby in a sling it might as well be a scarlet letter.

But that’s bullshit. As long as parents use a little common sense, there is no problem with bringing a child to a bar. But there are some rules:

• It shouldn’t be a nightclub or a hardcore punk bar with lots of people and loud music
• It should be early in the evening before people get too trashed
• Your kid needs to be fairly well behaved and if the baby is throwing a fit, take off
• No smoking
• Kids like whiskey in their sippy cups, not beer. It’s something to do with the carbonation.

But seriously, the bottom line is that I like to go out to bars for a beer with some friends. I liked doing it before I became a dad, and that didn’t miraculously change after Will was born. Sure kids change your life quite a bit, but they don’t alter your personality completely. You don’t stop enjoying a beer with friends simply because you have a kid. You don’t stop being yourself and you shouldn’t be forced to feel confined to play groups and parent meet-ups.

Besides, babysitters aren’t always available, and when they are, they’re expensive. So why not take the kid with you? Some of my best memories are from when I was a kid and my dad would let me tag along to the bar after selectmen’s meetings. The town officials would have a few beers and I’d sit quietly and listen, or I’d play video games and the jukebox. It wasn’t weird. I didn’t make anyone uncomfortable by being there. And no one frowned upon it because it was a neighborhood bar and restaurant where families were welcome.

So parents, I say go forth and invade your local corner bar. Pack the stroller, put the kid in the backpack if you’re a babywearer and suck down a beer while your kid knocks back a bottle or a sippy cup. And if a curmudgeon gives you attitude, tell them to go screw. As long as you’re drinking responsibly and looking after your kid, you have just as much of a right to be there as anyone else.

Because let’s face it, there’s only so much Wiggles you can watch before you start considering eating a shotgun.

CHECK OUT DAD-BLOGS AND FATHERHOOD FRIDAY. AND THEN GET DRUNK WITH YOUR KIDS.

But make no mistake, it’s not all just friendly shenanigans.

Parents of kids the same age are always watching, judging and using their kids as measuring sticks. Mine is walking, mine is talking, mine does calculus while simultaneously performing an Olympic gymnastics routine on the uneven bars. It’s not malicious or anything, but it’s natural for parents to show off their kids a little.

First of all, Will is a gigundo baby. He’s huge for his age. I haven’t measured his height lately but last time he was off the charts. And now he weighs nearly 35 lbs. Meanwhile Maddy is the cutest little peanut you’ve ever seen. I can scoop her up with one hand, as opposed to the crane that’s required to get my son off the ground.

The two of them were both very cute and equally adept at naming colors, foods, animals, numbers, etc. And while Maddy is a much better dancer than Will and nearly brought the house down when she curtsied, Will has her beat in the independence department because she still doesn’t sleep in her own bed.

They were neck and neck as the night wore on, when finally it came down to throwing a baseball. I smiled to myself because I’ve been working with Will on throwing and hitting, and he’s pretty good. He can toss a baseball and football a damn good ways. So I put the ball in his hand, stepped back a few feet and told him to toss it to me. He did, and while it wasn’t his best throw it reached me and I sat back and waited for everyone to be duly impressed.

Then Lozo grabbed the ball, gave it to Maddy, and my whole world fell apart.

Maddy, this pint-sized Lilliputian of a toddler, grabbed that ball and proceeded to wing that shit across the room to her father. I mean, shit…she hucked it. On a line. Like fucking Vladimir Guerrero trying to throw a runner out at the plate. I was speechless. Thinking it must’ve been a fluke, I had her try it again. Same result. Lozo (who is a New York Yankees fan I might add) was beaming and I was praying for death. But my agony was far from finished. Then he tossed the ball back at her, and she caught it. Plucked it right out of thin air.

Fuck. Throwing and catching.

I tried to get Will to throw the ball again but he had already lost interest. I pulled him away from the book he was trying to read and forced the ball in his hand.

“C’mon buddy, let’s play catch. Now REALLY try to throw this one OK?” I pleaded with him. But Will no longer cared and he half-heartedly threw the ball again…but this time it went backward.

Lozo was in his glory. My son had been bested athletically not only by his offspring, but his female offspring. Will got beat by a girl. At sports. A Yankee fan girl beat my Red Sox loving boy at baseball. There is no greater shame, and no more profound sorrow.

“She’s got some arm, huh?” Lozo said to me with a smirk, obviously gloating.

As you may have gathered by this point, dear readers, I am many things. But a gracious loser is not one of them.

“My son is going to grow up and nail your daughter.”

You see, Will’s arm will get stronger and he’ll eventually overtake Maddy in that department, and I won’t have to worry about it. But Lozo has a little girl and I have a boy. I have to worry about one penis, but Lozo? Lozo has to worry about ALL penises for all time.

Gotta hit him where it hurts!