I Don’t Want Any Father’s Day Gifts

I Don’t Want Any Father’s Day Gifts

Father’s Day is coming up (as if you didn’t know, you sly minx!) and Mom and Buried keeps asking me what I want. I keep telling her that I don’t want any Father’s Day gifts.

Which is true, I don’t want anything. Why not? Well, it’s certainly not because “I have two beautiful kids and an amazing wife and that’s everything I need” because give me a break!

Here are some reasons I don’t want any Father’s Day gifts.

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The Gift of Convenience

The Gift of Convenience

As you may know, I spent last week in Turks and Caicos.

It was gorgeous. Warm and sunny and, aside from the pristine ocean and the hotel pools, dry. Mom and Buried and Detective Munch started our last day in the warm tropical water and ended our last day in the cold, miserable rain outside Newark airport. It was quite the jarring shift, especially when the rain continued all weekend.

Further dampening (NAILED IT!) my mood was the realization that Mother’s Day is around the corner. I was exhausted (vacation with kids is no joke), and had little motivation to leave the house. Especially not in the rain.

But I had to go shopping.

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The Best Things About Flying with Children 

The Best Things About Flying with Children 

The Buried clan spent the last week in Turks and Caicos! (Visit my Instagram page to hear me rub it in your face.)

We had a great trip, made lots of memories, spent way too much money, and got home in one piece. Despite the two flights that book-ended the excursion.

All things considered, the two four-hour flights went pretty well. The Hammer slept (mostly) the whole time, Detective Munch behaved (mostly) the whole time. I didn’t give out any goody bags in a passive-aggressive attempt to stand up for all parents who get hassled on planes. And I didn’t deprive my five-year-old of technology in an attempt to see how long I could go without getting punched.

I did change a blowout at 35,000 feet, which I’m pretty disgusted by/proud of. And that wasn’t even one of the ten best things about flying with children!

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The Birthday Party Nightmare

The Birthday Party Nightmare

I guess I’m a party pooper. My son turned five in September, and as usual, my wife threw him an elaborate and expensive birthday party, complete with a theme, of course. Now that we have another kid to celebrate, the birthday party nightmare is only going to get worse.

When Detective Munch turned one, it was a circus theme. For two, it was Yo Gabba Gabba! At three, it was all about trains, and at four, he and his friends got capes and dressed as superheroes. This time around, it was a pirate-themed affair, complete with invitations that looked like—and were actually burned at the edges to look like—old treasure maps, a corresponding treasure hunt, and plastic swords and eye-patches for all the scurvy little dogs to take home and subsequently use to terrorize their parents.

It was fun. My son had fun, his friends had fun, everyone had fun. Even the adults! (We provided beer and mimosas because WE’RE NOT MONSTERS.) That doesn’t mean I want to do it again.

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