Blight in August

I am glad August is over.

Between a whole bunch of travel (some leisure-based, some not), Hurricane Irene, the heat, the interminable NFL preseason, the terrible television and my son’s graduation into a mobile, havoc-wreaking machine, August was tough. So, except for the fact that September is likely to be even worse – what with my birthday, my son’s birthday, our anniversary, football season, fantasy season AND the fact that I totally forgot to say “Rabbit rabbit” this morning! – I am ready to turn the page into fall.

The fall will definitely feature more activity from Dad and Buried, especially as my son turns one and we move past the “all babies are the same even though mine is so much cuter than everyone else’s” phase and into the “not quite a toddler and can’t quite talk but definitely has a personality and is so much effing cuter than your kid” phase. All sorts of hi-jinx are bound to ensue this fall and winter, both hilarious ones resulting in my son starting to say and do the darndest things, and hilarious ones resulting from my complete ignorance as an amateur father.

Already the kid has gone from not having any interest in rolling over to crawling, pulling himself up (and subsequently falling himself down), exploring every nook and cranny in our apartment and jamming his fingers into every drawer, shelf and doorway faster than I thought possible and I can barely keep up. Looking after a fast-moving, curious little baby that has no knowledge of what is dangerous, what will hurt and what an open window is is exhausting.

It’s not even an accident waiting to happen type situation, it’s more like “my son is desperately seeking out an accident or two just to spite me.” There’s no way around some baby pain at this point. And he can’t even walk yet.

My wife and I are tired and we need a break. But the little man is just gearing up. God knows what he’ll be like once we introduce sugar into his diet, which, for some reason, we’re going to do in about two weeks when he gets his first taste of birthday cake. Because why be cautious?

God help us if we haven’t finished baby-proofing by then.

Thankfully, the internet is great at reminding me that no matter how much I screw up raising my kid, there are always worse parents out there. Much worse parents. Like the parents of these kids, who need to be fed to the wolves (the parents, not the kids. Yet.)

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