My son says plenty of ridiculous stuff, but none is more ridiculous than the stuff he says when he’s trying to get out of going to bed.
I know I’m not alone in being both amused and frustrated by the nonsense our kids come up with in attempts to delay their bedtime, especially since Netflix created images based on some of the goofy excuses actual real-life kids have deployed.
They even used one of mine!
Until you’re a parent (or a sports fan), it might be hard to understand how you can love something with all of your heart while, at the exact same time, it drives you so crazy you want to run away and live in a log cabin.
Kids have an infinite capacity for inspiring both your awe and your annoyance. Based on my son’s recent behavior and burgeoning intellectual development, five-year-olds are right smack in the sweet spot.
Yesterday, in advance of Mom and Buried’s upcoming sprinkle, I wrote a list of things I want for baby number two.
Some of them are ridiculous, completely unattainable fantasies, but aside from the booze – and the vasectomy(!) – pretty much all of them were for the baby.
Now that that’s over with, today I’m focusing on what parents need.
I’ve been a parent to an only child (single-child parent?) for five years now.
When I envisioned having kids, back in my salad days of youth and freedom, I always saw myself having at least two. I have siblings, and despite the occasional incident (like when one brother accidentally tore my hair up with an electric shoe shiner, or another brother accidentally almost cost me a finger with a pair of scissors), I enjoy having siblings. Ergo, I wanted my kids to have siblings. Case closed.
But life got in the way, circumstances demanded compromise, and for a while it seemed like Detective Munch would be it for us. As you probably know already, the times, they are a-changing.
This is my pledge not to change with them.
Over the weekend, I finally showed my son Return of the Jedi! What a tremendous father/son bonding experience it… almost kind of was.
He enjoyed it, I think. Mostly. The parts he paid attention to, at least.
Watching a movie with a five-year-old is not all it’s cracked up to be. Even one they’ve been begging to see for months. But that’s my fault.
His overconfidence was his weakness. My faith in his attention span was mine.