My son can talk, which is great. Less great is that he can’t seem to stop talking.
Seriously. My kid never stops babbling. But that’s okay. The trouble isn’t that he talks, or even what he says, since a lot of the things he says are cute. Because he says things he doesn’t understand, and it’s hilarious when kids say darnd things. I won’t brag and say my son says the darndEST things, because I’m not a braggart, and besides, that’s for Bill Cosby to decide. But Detective Munch definitely says some pretty darnd things.
The trouble begins when we listen.
As a youngster, I used to enjoy writing “Weird Al”-style song parodies. I wrote one that changed the title of one of my favorite Saturday morning cartoons to “Muppet Rabies”. I told a story about a classmate who appeared on “Teen Jeopardy” by re-purposing the tune of Rush’s “Tom Sawyer”. At a friend’s request, I once wrote something bashing Derek Jeter and jammed it inside an Eminem song.
As I grew older, I occasionally found a new outlet for this supreme waste of time.
A few years ago, I helped my wife alter some lyrics to the song “Razzle Dazzle” so she could perform it at her company’s talent show (don’t ask). And just last year I whipped up a “Paradise City” parody that referenced Pope Benedict’s abrupt retirement and posted it on Twitter. It’s been retweeted 1,314 times and is easily my most popular tweet, even though I’ve written several about potty training.
I just can’t seem to stop writing the stupid parodies, and yet I’ve never written one about my son (unless you include the one where I sing his name to the tune of the “CHiPs” theme song). Until now. I apologize in advance for wasting your time.
This weekend is the Oscars, an awards ceremony I always expect to enjoy more than I actually do. Still, I continue to watch them every year. I used to manage to see most of the contenders before the show, but that’s gotten harder since I became a father (and most of my viewing consists of the same three “Jake and the Neverland Pirates” episodes and maybe some “Magic School Bus” all of a sudden).
Fortunately for me, my son is at least as entertaining as Philomena, and he’s definitely a better actor than that phone in Her. That thing didn’t look ANYTHING like Scarlet Johansson! She has a lot more curves, amirite?!
Anyway, last year I used the occasion of the Academy Awards to write about Detective Munch’s burgeoning skills as a mimic and manipulator, like a tiny, mush-mouthed Marlon Brando. His skills have only improved since last Oscar season, as he’s begun adding convincing levels of emotion to his middle-of-the-night pleas for water or potty or anything-he-can-think-of-that-will-enable-him-to-get-out-of-bed-for-even-two-minutes.
So this zombie post, resurrected below, is more relevant than ever. Please read it and then think of my son when you’re watching the ceremony, especially during the performance of “Let It Go” that is sure to put that soundtrack and movie back on his radar and in my head, right when we were finally sneaking out from under it. Thanks a lot, Hollywood!
Original Post: And the Oscar Goes To… My Scheming Toddler!
I’ve seen some pretty stupid articles on the internet. Like the one about Frozen having a gay agenda. Or the one about Obama being a Muslim. Or the one about Andy’s mom having once been a child. YEAH RIGHT.
But nothing is as stupid as this one. Sorry, this one. It was on HuffPo the other day (I post on there!), and it’s about how to tell if your kid was reincarnated.
As most people know, there’s no such thing as reincarnation. As most parents know, the only person their kid is a reincarnation of is Mommy or Daddy. And apparently maybe Hitler.
It’s terrible when your kid gets sick. Especially when he barely knows it.
My son is three and a half, and this winter he’s had a few tough colds. The coughing, the sore throat, the eternally running nose (although he’s had one of those since he was born, so that’s more of a curse than a health issue), all have reared their heads at one time or another, much to our dismay. Of course, being a resilient, happy-go-lucky kind of guy, Detective Munch barely seems to notice his own symptoms.
Unfortunately, his preschool does notice them. His teachers are like dogs; they can smell sickness. So he’s forced to stay home. And that is a huge hassle.
So you may have seen the “Business Baby” meme that’s going around…
My son has something to say about it, and this time it’s
personal not just gibberish.
So I’ve become relatively obsessed with HBO’s “True Detective”. I got on the bandwagon a little bit late, but after spending the past week catching up on the season, I won’t be hopping off of it anytime soon.
The term “link envy” implies that I wish I had created the site to which I’m linking, and while I guess that’s kind of true for this one, I’m mostly just glad someone else did. Because it’s hilarious.
Even if there are only a few entries, every one is gold. Especially this one.
To tell you the truth, I don’t remember a lot about it.
I remember the panic. I remember the dark smudges on my son’s face. I remember sitting in the emergency room watching “30 Rock” on mute, desperately hoping we’d be able to go home soon.
I had accidentally spilled some prescription pills on the floor while my son played nearby. After cleaning them up and being unable to verify how many were in the bottle beforehand, we were terrified that he might have ingested one. It was just an accident. The bottle fell. It wasn’t sitting there open, it wasn’t within my son’s reach. It simply fell. But accident or not, it was still my fault.
Yeah, I definitely remember the panic.
Raising kids often feels like a contact sport. Or an endurance test. Or both. It’s actually more like 50 different sports all wrapped up in one. In short, it’s like the Olympics.
Maybe it’s not cross-country skiing, and it’s definitely not a biathlon (guns don’t kill people, terrible gun laws allow people to easily kill by other people with guns), but it’s certainly something of a a marathon. It might even be curling, but I don’t understand curling, so we’re sticking with marathon, and maybe some ice dancing (I don’t understand that either).
I’ve never participated in the Olympic games, but I have seen them on TV. A lot. They’re always on. And after years of being a spectator, I’ve come to the conclusion that watching the Olympics is not that different from having kids.
In what ways, you say? Funny you should ask.