My son was born in the middle of September, so when his first Halloween came around, he was barely even a thing yet, let alone someone who might one day want to dress up as Thing. But that didn’t stop Mom and Buried from putting him in a little lion outfit and parading him around the neighborhood, to the delight of everyone because that shit is cute.
When his second Halloween came around, he went as a monkey. We initially tried a skeleton outfit but that did not go over well. To be honest, neither did the monkey, most of the time. But crying and screaming was kind of his thing back then. (Not that that’s changed much.) Last year was his third Halloween, and he was totally on board, chomping at the bit to be Jake the Neverland Pirate.
Finally, it was up to him to choose his costume. And it should always be from now on.
Parenting is the worst thing in the world and the worst part about it is how fast it goes by.
Such is the paradox every mom and dad must come to terms with as soon as their first child is born. The bad parts are plentiful, the good parts are transcendent, and everything is over before you know it. I bitch a lot about pretty much all of it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t also love it. Personally, if I can’t bitch about something, it might as well not even exist. Which makes every rant against the hassle of child-rearing just further evidence of how important it all is to me.
Which means this list of things I hate about parenting is actually kind of a love letter, if that helps you feel better.
Things are going to be quiet around here for the next week or so, because Dad and Buried is going on vacation!
I’m actually a little reluctant to call it a vacation, since I’m bringing my toddler along. Yes, I’m taking the week off from work, and from my blog (I’ll still be updating my Facebook page every now and then, so be sure to follow me there!), and I’ll be at the beach. But I don’t know how much relaxation will be happening, as it’s not exactly my son’s middle name.
His middle name is actually “GET THE F*** DOWN FROM THERE YOU’RE GOING TO KILL YOURSELF!”
For the third week this month, Mom and Buried is traveling and I’m on my own with my kid.
DON’T PANIC. We’re okay.
Sure, maybe the first time my wife went away I was all: what am I gonna do? But several weeks in and now I’m all: ain’t no thing but a chicken wing on a string. I’m a real-life dad, not a Seth Macfarlane character; I can handle it. Newsflash: it’s parenting, not the Thunderdome, and dads can do it just as well as moms.
I’d even venture to say we do it better.
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.