Now that the cat’s out of the bag about the impending new addition to the Buried family, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty: gender identification.
When we realized Mom and Buried was pregnant, we started speculating about what it would be. My wife wanted a girl for a variety of reasons, some that were general (a girl to bond with!), some that were personal (she grew up with, and loves having, sisters), some that weren’t big priorities (variety!). I know, a mom wants a little girl? This is not surprising to people.
What may be a surprise is that I wanted a girl too!
Will we get one? You’ll have to come to my house for a slice of color-coded cake to find out!
The “dad bod” trend has been a boon to dads – and non-dads – everywhere. I was at the beach last week, and everywhere I looked, it was dad bod city.
Who can blame us? Men suddenly have validation for our laziness, and apparently there’s an entire subset of women who find our beer bellies attractive!
I admit that I have a dad bod of my own, but not on purpose. I go to the gym several times a week, and I try to eat healthy, give or take 100 beers a week. I don’t want a dad bod. I hate even saying dad bod. And I especially hate the people I blame for giving me one.
It’s World Breastfeeding Week. I don’t think that means I get to partake, but I’m gonna go ahead and support it anyway. I mean, there’s no point in stopping now.
A few months ago I wrote something about breastfeeding, in which I suggested that many of us do far more disgusting things in public than those mothers who dare keep their helpless children alive through the miracle of biology.
The uproar over seeing a woman do something so natural, necessary and worthwhile always confuses me. But I think I’ve finally figured out why it makes some people so upset.
I was supposed to keep track.
I was supposed to tally all the miles I walked with Detective Munch and Mom and Buried, as part of the “KINDMilesMatter” campaign. But I blew it. Rather, my son blew it.
Because kids ruin everything.
Last week, I wrote about my son’s need to use a nebulizer when his chest gets congested – from his allergies or from a cold.
It’s not the sexiest rig in the world (unless you find Immortan Joe sexy, and if so: YOU’RE SCARING ME), and the first few times we had to put it to use, it was a little freaky. And he wasn’t a lot into it.
Luckily, we discovered that the length of a commercial-free TV show on Netflix matches almost perfectly with the length of the nebulizer treatment. Letting him watch a show while taking his medicine became a convenient solution.
At least, it was convenient, before my son got clued in.