I love my kids, I just hate parenting
The other day, after Mom and Buried mentioned something about Father’s Day to Detective Munch, he responded by complaining about the fact that there isn’t a “kid’s day.”
Have you stopped laughing?
A child asking why there isn’t a kids’ day is like a white dude chanting “ALL LIVES MATTER” or a Meninist existing.
EVERY DAY IS KID’S DAY, JUNIOR.
Before we have kids, we often make a lot of hyperbolic statements about the things we can’t live without. Things like bacon and beer, as well as certain albums and books and movies.
Then you have kids, and those kids immediately skyrocket to the top of the list. Some of the other items on the list are displaced, having instantly become frivolous, but some of them remain, and even grow in importance.
Like coffee!
The Hammer won’t eat anything.
For a while, we thought we had him with pieorogies, and pizza, and pancakes, but he soon abandoned his alliteration-based preferences and embarked on a hunger strike. Cooking food for him quickly became a chore when all he wanted was his bottle of milk.
He loves his snacks, though, and despite the fact that he has occasionally procured a potato chip or two (second kids FTW!), he mostly munches on Cheerios. And thank god, because not only does he actually eat them, they don’t require any prep!
Being a good parent means your kids’ comfort, health and happiness always supersede yours.
Parenting is about sacrifice, and that means more than giving your son the last piece of bacon, or being forced to stop listening to Kanye when your daughter is in the back seat. It means letting your kid think he told you what Superman’s one weakness is, or why the dinosaurs went extinct.
You have to sacrifice a little ego, and sometimes you have to sacrifice a little dignity. Just make sure it’s worth it when you do!
Disclosure: This post is in collaboration with DIYZ. All opinions of apps and companies that help me complete DIY projects are my own.
When we moved to Raleigh in 2012, we bought a dining room table which came with a bench. But, the only bench the store had available was the display model. It wasn’t without some wear and tear, but we needed it. Obviously, a mere year and a half later, when we got back to Brooklyn, it broke.
The wood splintered on one of the legs and it was no longer stable enough to use. It seemed fixable, at least for someone who can fix things (read: not me), so we kept it in storage for when Mom and Buried got remarried.
To her chagrin, we’re still together, and the bench is still broken.