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!
Recently, Detective Munch got in trouble at school.
He gets in trouble at school every once in a while, but it’s mostly with both the same frequency of trouble and of the same variety of “trouble” that most five-year-olds get into. He doesn’t pay attention to the teachers, he goofs around with his friends and acts silly, he put his fingers in someone else’s mouth. You know, typical behavior.
But last week he did something a little bit more serious, and in an attempt to let him know that such behavior is unacceptable, Mom and Buried and I were forced to lay down the law. Of course, there are only so many ways to discipline a five-year-old, and a lot of the time you end up wondering who’s being punished.
Discipline is a double-edged sword.
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.
Kids aren’t good at very many things, but they are good at going berserk on their parents for no reason.
After a while, you get used to their antics, and learn enough about their irrational ways that you can properly anticipate, and safely weather, one of their outbursts.
If you’re not yet schooled in the five stages of throwing a fit, don’t worry. I’m here to help.
Last week, I wrote about the sleep deprivation, the loss of both quantity and quality of sleep, that comes with being a parent.
Even after sleep training, even when they’re older, your sleep schedule gets shredded.
Today, I thought I’d share a timeline of the typical night in the Buried household, from when we put Detective Munch down to bed and from when he gets us up the next morning.
Buckle up, it’s going to be a bumpy night.