Every Spring, for the past two years, I have been faced with a crippling bout of allergies. I never really had them before, so their onset is a tad confusing. I’ve lived in NYC for more than four years now, in the same neighborhood, so as much as this Red Sox fan would love to, I can’t blame the Big Apple.
I’d like to blame the trees, but Marky Mark made that seem too ridiculous. I’d also like to blame The Trees, but my days of listening to Rush were long gone well before the allergies set in.
So after a brief, slightly ill-considered, largely well-inebriated period of elimination, I’ve come to a startling conclusion: I’m allergic to my son.
On one level, this is terrible news, as I’ve grown somewhat attached to my son. I like him. He’s cute. He recently learned how to hug, and it’s adorable to be on the receiving end of one of his early attempts at an embrace. But now that I’ve determined that he is the cause of my inflamed eyeballs, stuffed and runny nose, clogged sinuses, throbbing headache and sore throat, I’m afraid hugs are now off-limits. In fact, in order to ease my symptoms and allow me to continue – or get back to – living a productive, fulfilled life, my wife and I are considering donating my son to charity.
On another level, this is fantastic news! Finally, I’ll get my pre-fatherhood life back! No more waking up early, or in the middle of the night, to attend to the restless little nuisance. No more tantrums, which have only just started and will only get worse as he gets older. No more cleaning up after another messy meal or a day spent strewing his toys all over the apartment. No more paying for daycare and diapers and fish sticks and tiny clothes. Back to drinking and partying all the time and carefree weekends of sleeping it off!
All I need now is a time-machine and some college applications and I’ll be back in the high life!
I know what you’re thinking: “You’re a heartless monster! How could you even entertain the insane idea of getting rid of your only son merely because he is causing temporary, seasonal discomfort? If you were a good person and a real father, the thought would never even occur to you! You psychopath! Something something Jesus!”
Um, hello? Have you seen The Brady Bunch? Something similar happened when it was determined that Cindy was allergic to her father. The Bradys didn’t waste time throwing stones; they worked towards a solution. And while it wasn’t an easy decision, they did the only thing that made sense: they created a wicker man in which they would burn Mike to death in order to purge the allergens from their home and free Cindy from her misery. But then they discovered it was merely the dog’s shampoo so, phew! Effigy dodged.
I haven’t been so lucky; it’s not my son’s shampoo. Well, I actually never checked his shampoo – in fact, I haven’t really looked into any other potential causes. Because I know my son is to blame. It’s sad, but my head hurts and I’m sick of it, so he gets the boot. A father’s gotsta do what a father’s gotsta do. For guys like me and Mike Brady, that’s a little something called sacrifice.
You can at least give me some credit for not doing the whole wicker man thing. I mean, my allergies are KILLING ME, and fire burns good. Erases all traces. But no, I practiced restraint. And we don’t have a backyard.
Oh hey, it looks like my wife got me some Claritin.
Never mind.
