I recently read Keith Richards’s autobiography. I read it to learn more about the recording of some of his band’s seminal albums, and about how he survived doing so many drugs but it got me thinking about what I would do if my son decided to he wanted to be an axman. While describing his childhood, Keith never really discusses what his parents thought of his choice of career, making it seem like they were just bystanders while he chased his dream. Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t, maybe he doesn’t remember their names. But it got me thinking.
I don’t yet know what my son’s dreams will be, but I plan to support them as best I can. The thing is, as a parent I’m sure to have a different perspective on his life and his dreams than he does. Mostly because, by virtue of being older and having lived more life, I have some perspective – which can be both valuable and damaging, and he doesn’t – which can also be both valuable and damaging. The young and the
old less-young usually disagree on where the value lies.
This is a source of conflict.
I hope whatever gifts you get – or give – get a better reception than that clown Jimmy Olsen’s!
You may remember I wrote a similar letter on Mother’s Day, in which I begged you to behave so that your mom could relax and enjoy her special Sunday.
This letter is a little different. For one thing, this letter is about me, rather than about Mommy, so I can speak a bit more freely. For another, until football starts, Sundays are pretty much meaningless to me. Even this coming one.
I love animals. I love dogs and cats, because I’m not one of those psychos who thinks you can only appreciate one of the two and have to draw a line in the sand.
But I am not a fan of cat-sized dogs. When I get a dog (it’s gonna happen, honey!), I want a real dog. I’ve never seen the point of having one of those teacup things that you can carry around in your bag.
Of course, having lived with a toddler for the past year, I’m starting to see the point.
Oh happy day!
My son performed his first successful poop in the potty this morning, and I wanted to share the proud moment with all of my blog readers.
It’s only right that you should experience this along with me, and share in my triumph.
Thanks for making the image on the next page possible!
Having kids is a constant test. Of your patience, your mettle, your marriage and constantly, your gag reflex.
A year ago at this time, my son was hosting Hand, Foot and Mouth disease. It was gross, and we survived. Then he got it again. Shouldn’t there be a limit to unconditional love?
This June, he has so far escaped that disgusting fate (knock on wood!), but we haven’t escaped the grossness. Because today we are knee-deep in potty training, and this kid is a sprayer.
The post I’m resurrecting today explores the cruel reality that no matter how gross your kids are, or how obnoxious they can be, none of that trumps your devotion to them. Make no mistake: unconditional love kind of sucks. Because I’d really much rather let my son fend for himself when his ass explodes, but no. Stupid biological imperative.
Every time my love for my son is tested, my love wins. Even when it involves fishing though his feces for the penny he swallowed.
Original post: How Much Do You Love Your Kids?
A few weeks back, after abandoning potty training due to the onset of trauma, Mom and Buried and I took a quick run to Target.
While there, we decided to buy some off-brand diapers to get us through the next few weeks, enough time for Detective Munch to emerge from his PTSD (Potty Traumatic Stress Disorder) and get back on the potty train.
The cheapo diapers turned out to not be the best idea, as they were cheapo for a reason: they leaked worse than Julian Assange.
Which got me thinking. Maybe I shouldn’t shortchange my son.
I don’t consider myself the superstitious type. I occasionally knock some wood and usually try to say “rabbit rabbit” at the start of every month, but that’s about it.
Of course, that was before I became a dad.
These days I might as well be Shirley Maclaine for all the bullshit I find myself believing. There’s just NO WAY a filthy anarchist monkey like Curious George gets invited to that many parties, but I just keep playing along.
Children don’t understand decorum.
They don’t know that society has rules. That society demands you behave in a certain way in certain places. It’s called being civilized.
Children are not civilized. My two-year-old might as well be a rabid animal most of the time.
Getting him to behave the way one is supposed to behave is impossible.