Over the weekend, professional golfer Rory McIlroy won the Open Championship. In the process he netted $1.66 million.
His father, meanwhile, scored big himself, having placed a bet in 2005 that his son would win the Open Championship by 2015. Daddy McIlroy collected (approximately) $171,000 merely for having confidence in his son’s golfing ability.
Which got me thinking…
What would I bet on my own son to accomplish within the next 10 years?
If you are one of the nearly 7000 people (dupes!) who follow my Facebook page, you probably got annoyed last week when I asked you for topic suggestions. Sue me; I had some writer’s block.
And I have bigger things to worry about than your happiness. As one of my readers reminded me with her suggested topic: Mums suffer from constant ridiculous anxieties re our kids. Like is he eating enough, has dad put his woolly hat on properly, will he get to college if he doesn’t get into the right nursery… and is he eating enough? How about you share your worst and most ludicrous dad anxieties?
Let me start by saying that a propensity for parenting anxiety can’t be so neatly divided by gender. I am often more paranoid and unnecessarily protective of my son than Mom and Buried is, and I think that just comes down to personality. But you’re right, Anonymous Reader: WOMEN BE CRAZY.
As you may know, we’re back in Brooklyn. Which is for the best, even though many of the reasons we left were still waiting for us when we got back: namely the insane cost of living, which includes everything from the rent to the cost of daycare to the price of a six-pack.
One of the most outrageous offenders in the “You gotta be rich just to be poor there” category is the cost of a babysitter. But I’ve whined about how expensive babysitters are already.
Now can I whine about how terrifying they are?
Hello, Dad and Buried followers! Chances are you’ve been reading D&B for some time now, and I know what you’ve been thinking: who is the woman lucky enough to have snagged this catch?
That would be me. Eat your hearts out, ladies.
After much pathetic begging on his part, I’ve finally decided to oblige my dear husband and write a guest post. I figured you’ve been wondering for a while now about the better half of this parenting operation and it’s high time I ended the suspense. Besides, it is Father’s Day, after all.
So, I present to you the following list, the aptly named:
The Five Most Annoying Things About Dad and Buried
(Editor’s Note: This may not have been the best idea.)
Usually the father I talk about on my blog is Yours Truly because, let’s face it, that guy is fascinating. But seeing as today is Father’s Day, and I’ve only been a dad for three and a half hellish and interminable years, we’re going to talk about someone far more boring: my dad.
My father is a veteran of the daddy wars, having raised three kids (if you can say that any guy whose wife gave birth to children in the ’60s and ’70s actually “raised” anyone, which we know you can’t since we’ve all seen Mad Men and good dads are an entirely 21st century construct. I’m just glad he quit smoking cigarettes before I was born).
Like most fathers, he was determined to mold me and my brothers into well-rounded, compassionate, successful, miniature versions of himself. (Because what is having children if not the ultimate example of narcissism?) And that required some teaching.
In honor of Father’s Day, I’m going to talk about some of the lessons my father brought to bear during his ongoing tenure as my dad. Lessons that, unfortunately, I failed to absorb even a little bit.
About a year and a half ago, we moved to North Carolina. It was fun while it lasted but, as of tomorrow, we’ll be back in Brooklyn.
I guess, despite being a Red Sox fan, I’m a Yankee at my core. But, more importantly, Mom and Buried and I are city folk, and Raleigh just didn’t satisfy that part of us. So we’ve come to the end of the (tobacco) road.
It’s (not that) hard to say goodbye.
Parents are some of the most creative people in the world. And also the most insane. Don’t take my word for it, just take a look at the popular new baby names. Or check out Huffington Post’s list of 2014′s hottest new parenting trends.
I get it. Once you become a parent you enter a whole new subculture, with new friends, a new lifestyle, and brand-spanking new priorities. It’s overwhelming and exciting and boring and inspiring! And what better target for a parent’s creativity than their own children?
The Huffington Post may have a line on this year’s latest fads, but I’m doing them one better. I’m predicting 2015‘s new trends! Why? Because I’m a goddamn lunatic! And so are you if you don’t hop on this bandwagon asap.
Everyone knows that living with a toddler isn’t all fun and games. In fact, I’ve spent a fair amount of time whining about the fact that it’s NO fun and games.
Today I’m going to let you in on a little secret: it’s SOME fun and games.
A lot of it is stressful and loud and crowded and dirty, but the good parts make it all worth it. So, no: living with a toddler is NOT like being in prison (except when it is). It’s actually more like going to an amusement park.
Allow me to explain…
Raising kids often feels like a contact sport. Or an endurance test. Or both. It’s actually more like 50 different sports all wrapped up in one. In short, it’s like the Olympics.
Maybe it’s not cross-country skiing, and it’s definitely not a biathlon (guns don’t kill people, terrible gun laws allow people to easily kill by other people with guns), but it’s certainly something of a a marathon. It might even be curling, but I don’t understand curling, so we’re sticking with marathon, and maybe some ice dancing (I don’t understand that either).
I’ve never participated in the Olympic games, but I have seen them on TV. A lot. They’re always on. And after years of being a spectator, I’ve come to the conclusion that watching the Olympics is not that different from having kids.
In what ways, you say? Funny you should ask.