I’m not really the thankful type.
That’s not to say I’m not thankful for things, I’m just not the kind of guy that runs around telling people what I’m thankful for and how blessed I am. The good thing about Thanksgiving is that it reins those people in by giving them an entire holiday during which they can babble about their happy lives all day long. Of course, in the online world (i.e., Facebook), it has become the 30 Days of Thankfulness, because why be annoying for one day when you can do it for a whole month?
But if you can’t beat ‘em – like, literally BEAT THEM TO DEATH – join ‘em. So rather than get arrested this November, I’m giving some thanks. Deal with it.
I’ve been writing a lot of lists lately.
As a result, my friend at AskYourDadBlog – a far nicer, far more successful, far more irritating outfit – thought he’d be clever and insult my recent rash of list-making by suggesting a new one, called “10 Ways Having Kids is Like Writing a List About Things That Are Like Having Kids.”
Joke’s on him though, because I DID it. And it’s glorious. And it fills me with (more) self-loathing.
Children are surprisingly intelligent and perceptive. Except when they’re not.
My son knows to lie to get what he wants, he knows how to push our buttons to piss us off, he knows how to work my iPhone and he knows I didn’t really steal his nose. I bet yours is the same way; kids are always smarter than you expect. And yet despite their mad skills, on an emotional level they are total morons.
Mine still can’t figure out when an emotional breakdown is warranted (never) and when one isn’t (when your banana breaks).
Now that I have a car (stupid North Carolina), I find myself listening to the radio more than I have in years. Of course, the radio is terrible. So I throw on sports talk.
Which is also terrible, especially local sports radio. But the national shows, like ESPN’s morning shows and a few others, are tolerable. This morning, I heard Dan Patrick tell a story about how, one day during the 2004 playoffs, some of his son’s classmates – Yankees fans – pissed on the kid’s Red Sox hat.
Suddenly I’ve started questioning the way I’ve been indoctrinating my son into fandom.
Trying times at the Buried household.
Even since the kid turned three, he’s been, to borrow a word usually reserved for younger ages, terrible. Mom and Buried is concerned that we’re doing something – or not doing something – to encourage – or not discourage – this behavior. I’m more apt to dismiss his latest paranormal activities as part and parcel with his development. Most kids are devil-spawn at this age.
So she frets and I rationalize:
“He’s a toddler!”
“He’s three years old!”
“It’s a phase!”
While I concede I’m not the perfect Dad (there’s only one perfect dad: Coach Taylor from “Friday Night Lights”) and that there are probably things we could be doing to curb his behavior, I think I’m right. He is a toddler. He is only three. It probably is a phase.
But what if it’s not?
Parents are the worst. Actually, politicians are probably the worst. And other people’s kids suck pretty bad too. And Nazis.
In fact, I changed my mind. I’m going to go out on a limb and say the Nazis are really the worst.
But parents still suck pretty bad. I knew it before I had a kid and it’s become even more apparent since I’ve joined their ranks.
Here are some of the reasons why.
Email is a funny thing.
As a world-famous blogger who hates his kid and once mentioned Bronies, I get A LOT of weird spam. Most of it regarding my penis.
But sometimes I get asked advice and sometimes I get yelled at. Sometimes I get praise and sometimes an old teacher from high school reaches out to say hi. (Most of the time I get yelled at.)
Yesterday, I got an email that I initially thought was spam. I’m still not positive it’s not. But I’m responding anyway.
Thank you all for coming. I’m sure my toddler will appreciate it years from now, when we show him pictures and explain everything, since he’s barely three and doesn’t understand what it’s all about and won’t remember a single moment.
It’s been a tough couple of days since Lovey left us, particularly for Detective Munch, who has lost his sidekick, his snot rag, his bunkmate, his whipping boy, his partner-in-crime, his napkin…
His best friend.
It’s a sad day, but we’re here to celebrate a life well-lived, not mourn an untimely – but inevitable – passing. Let’s face it, if Lovey hadn’t been lost, he probably would’ve disintegrated; dude was FILTHY. (By which I mean: well-loved.)
When you’re a parent, you tend to repeat yourself a lot.
I constantly find myself telling my son the same things over and over again in attempts to get him to listen. It’s partially because he’s only three and therefore very stupid, and it’s partially because he’s diabolical.
I’m pretty sure he pretends to be dumber than he is, feigning ignorance just so he can continue to do whatever idiotic, dangerous and destructive thing he’s currently doing and then act all surprised (read: start crying) when he finally realizes we’re mad. The dude’s favorite word is “no!”, so it’s a tad suspect when he suddenly doesn’t understand our stern reprimands and just keeps swinging his plastic baseball bat perilously close to the TV.
Whether it’s his stupidity or his subterfuge, Mom and Buried and I have to constantly repeat the same collection of phrases, which I’ve compiled below. If there were an english-to-parenting dictionary, there’d be a list of “common phrases” at the front, and it would probably look a little like this one.
By pure coincidence, I’ve already written two posts this week that have “six” in the title, both uncharacteristically nice (here’s the first one and here’s the second one. I figured I’d make it an even three, and get back to my old self, by potentially summoning the beast with the third “six” in the trilogy.
It makes sense, since this post is really just me playing devil’s advocate. Although I’m a firm believer that having kids doesn’t have to change your life entirely, it definitely does change it. Just not that much. My blog is living (not literally) proof that you can keep your shitty personality and hateful sense of humor when you become a parent; you just have to want to.
I didn’t stop being a sarcastic jerk when my son was born, even though I quite sincerely love him with all my blackened heart. And I didn’t stop drinking, or going out to eat with my wife, or watching the TV shows I like or the sports I love. In many ways – but for the purposes of forming a hilarious Satanic trilogy of my last three posts, in six ways – being a dad is a lot like not being one.