As you know, I have a son. He’s three years old and I love him to death. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me that I occasionally wish had never happened to me.
This Christmas is the first time he really, truly gets it, to the point that he actively flips through circulars and points at the toys he wants added to his list (two years ago I wrote about the gifts he wouldn’t be getting). We’re going to give him a good Christmas, and he’ll get more than he needs, much more than he deserves, and nowhere near as much as he wants. All I want in return is a smile and some laughter and a lot less screaming. And, because I’m petty and small, I wouldn’t mind if he experienced a little bit of the frustration that the holiday season brings me.
So with that in mind, I put together a quick list of items you can get for your young children that will give you as much joy as Christmas gives them, by giving them as much aggravation as your kids sometimes give you.
Human beings suck. Especially parents. Having kids seems to bring out the worst in a lot of us. For example, when I had a kid I started making gross generalizations about huge swaths of people.
You know who doesn’t suck? Kids. I know, stop laughing; I hate them too. But hear me out.
Obviously, kids suck. They’re terrible. They’re loud and unruly and they don’t listen and they’re stupid and they’re exhausting and they smell. And that’s just MY kid. Don’t even get me started on other people’s.
But you know what else they are? Kind. Innocent. Without a judgmental bone in their bodies. And selfless.
Email is a funny thing.
As a world-famous blogger who hates his kid and once mentioned Bronies, I get A LOT of weird spam. Most of it regarding my penis.
But sometimes I get asked advice and sometimes I get yelled at. Sometimes I get praise and sometimes an old teacher from high school reaches out to say hi. (Most of the time I get yelled at.)
Yesterday, I got an email that I initially thought was spam. I’m still not positive it’s not. But I’m responding anyway.
We’d wanted one for years.
As soon as we got married, we started planning for it. We knew we’d need a bigger place first, and should probably try to save up a little too. But there was never going to be a perfect time for it. We just had to take the plunge, come what may.
It would change our lives, without a doubt. But we were confident the benefits would make it worthwhile. We watched our friends with envy and we knew we had to do it too.
So we did it. We finally got ourselves a King-size mattress.
Unfortunately, then we had a kid.
By pure coincidence, I’ve already written two posts this week that have “six” in the title, both uncharacteristically nice (here’s the first one and here’s the second one. I figured I’d make it an even three, and get back to my old self, by potentially summoning the beast with the third “six” in the trilogy.
It makes sense, since this post is really just me playing devil’s advocate. Although I’m a firm believer that having kids doesn’t have to change your life entirely, it definitely does change it. Just not that much. My blog is living (not literally) proof that you can keep your shitty personality and hateful sense of humor when you become a parent; you just have to want to.
I didn’t stop being a sarcastic jerk when my son was born, even though I quite sincerely love him with all my blackened heart. And I didn’t stop drinking, or going out to eat with my wife, or watching the TV shows I like or the sports I love. In many ways – but for the purposes of forming a hilarious Satanic trilogy of my last three posts, in six ways – being a dad is a lot like not being one.
Here’s the thing, people: when I say I’m a parenting expert, I’m being sarcastic. If you’ve read my blog, you know what I think about the idea that anyone can be an “expert” parent. It’s hogwash. It’s all a gamble.
I should have known that my sarcasm might backfire, especially since it’s been happening my entire life. But here we are, with the seventh installment of my advice series, and this time I got a lot of questions. Serious questions. Difficult questions. And I have no choice but to give them a shot.
Just remember, I’m a clown. A buffoon. I’m no more qualified to tell you how to raise your kids than Britney Spears or Dr. Phil. So remember, while some of my responses will likely contain some good ideas and an occasional bit of insight, apply my advice at your own risk. I WRITE JOKES.
Got it? Good. Now let’s go ruin some lives.
Mom and Buried and I spent the weekend enjoying a local music festival. We knew from the start that Detective Munch wouldn’t be accompanying us to the many night-time shows, but – because we wanted him to experience some live music, which he loves – we took some of the daytime events.
On Saturday, we went to the less interesting (read: bluegrass) bands that were playing outside somewhere, rather than inside some dank dive bar my son couldn’t get into. It worked out okay; the kid got to dance and interact with dogs and strangers and we got to have a beer or two while doing our best to prevent our son from getting bit by disgruntled dogs and strangers.
It’s called compromise, and it’s part of being a parent. But on the eve of his third birthday, it’s time for my kid to start holding up his end of the bargain.
Today is my birthday. I know; I don’t care either.
I’m not going to whine about how old I am or anything. Age ain’t nothing but a mile marker on the highway to eternal nothingness, am I right? And truth be told, I don’t feel that different than I did at 27. Except for this three-foot-tall growth that’s attached to my leg, sucking all the energy out of me.
That energy would’ve come in handy over the weekend, when I tried to live like I still was 27 by attending a three-day music fest.