I’m not really the thankful type.
That’s not to say I’m not thankful for things, I’m just not the kind of guy that runs around telling people what I’m thankful for and how blessed I am. The good thing about Thanksgiving is that it reins those people in by giving them an entire holiday during which they can babble about their happy lives all day long. Of course, in the online world (i.e., Facebook), it has become the 30 Days of Thankfulness, because why be annoying for one day when you can do it for a whole month?
But if you can’t beat ‘em – like, literally BEAT THEM TO DEATH – join ‘em. So rather than get arrested this November, I’m giving some thanks. Deal with it.
Now that I have a car (stupid North Carolina), I find myself listening to the radio more than I have in years. Of course, the radio is terrible. So I throw on sports talk.
Which is also terrible, especially local sports radio. But the national shows, like ESPN’s morning shows and a few others, are tolerable. This morning, I heard Dan Patrick tell a story about how, one day during the 2004 playoffs, some of his son’s classmates – Yankees fans – pissed on the kid’s Red Sox hat.
Suddenly I’ve started questioning the way I’ve been indoctrinating my son into fandom.
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.
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.
It’s football season! And you know what that means: it’s fantasy football season!
Bore everyone to tears with game recaps! Anger wives and girlfriends by spending too much time doing research! Turn leisurely Sundays into stress-filled angerscapes of regret and frustration. I can’t wait!
I’ve written about my relationship with fantasy football before, even going so far as to consider skipping the birth of my child to attend my draft. That was a choice I didn’t end up having to make, thankfully, and it resulted in one of the best day’s of my life: the day I won it all.
These days, almost everyone in the league has kids, and since everyone with kids wishes they had better kids, I thought I’d imagine what the top picks in a Fantasy Parenting draft would look like. Continue reading
My son is closing in on his third birthday, and he seems to be developing at an astonishing rate.
I’m not much for tracking development via checkpoints and milestones, but hardly more than a day goes by that I’m not impressed by something he says or does.
Unfortunately, not every ability he acquires is something to write home about. He’s good at a lot of things, but some of the things he’s good at are bad.
Do your kids ever surprise you by knowing something you haven’t taught them? Something you wish they didn’t know?
The other day, while we were driving home from somewhere, my son started pointing at signs for various buildings and asking about them. “Is that where we get coffee?” “Is that where we get fries?” “Is that Target?” And he was right every time. It was simultaneously impressive and unsettling.
It’s amazing to watch my son’s mind expand, but it’s disconcerting when the logos of fast food restaurants and department stores are what’s filling it.
I’ve been writing a lot about the dreams my son may have as he grows up and the way life may dash them. But the fact is, despite how hard it is to become a rock star, or how unlikely it may be that he will be a professional athlete, if there’s one country in the world where such outlandish dreams are possible, it’s Canada.
But America ain’t bad either.
Freedom can be a dangerous thing. There are so many ways it can go wrong. In honor of Independence Day, I’ve put together a little list of things my son can be when he grows up, because of our freedom, but that I hope he doesn’t become.
My son has recently become obsessed with playing baseball, waking up every morning and immediately demanding to take some cuts with his plastic bat (and Red Sox ball. REPRESENT!).
I think it’s great that he’s into the sport; it’s a hell of a lot safer than football and I’m glad he’s showing more interest in it than in something like soccer. But it’s gonna hurt when I crush his dreams. Or, more to the point, when his body does.
Sorry kid. You don’t have the genes for sports.
You may remember I wrote a similar letter on Mother’s Day, in which I begged you to behave so that your mom could relax and enjoy her special Sunday.
This letter is a little different. For one thing, this letter is about me, rather than about Mommy, so I can speak a bit more freely. For another, until football starts, Sundays are pretty much meaningless to me. Even this coming one.