Sports! It’s not just the name of one of the best albums of the 80s. (Huey Lewis and the News FOR LYFE!) It’s also the subject of what is often one of the worst parts of parenting, whether your kids are into sports or not. This week on the Dad and Buried podcast, we diveRead more about The Sporting Blues[…]
Heart disease isn’t a big trend in my family. Sure, there’s some, my grandfather had some heart issues that contributed to his failing health, and my other grandfather died from a heart attack before I was old enough to remember meeting him.
Aaand now I’m reconsidering my luck. Especially since my doctor recently told me that my triglycerides were a little high – which apparently is not a good thing, because when I tried to fist-bump him he got mad.
A kid in my high school biology class once asked our teacher if a woman could give birth to a snake. And we’ve been close friends ever since!
Thankfully, none of Mom and Buried’s ultrasounds have shown a cobra. And I already have a kid. So even though I’m not a biology teacher, and it’s been five years since I’ve had a newborn baby around and I don’t remember much about how to care for one, I have a pretty good idea of what’s coming (sometime in the next two weeks).
Yet despite the fact that I have an existing child on whom to base my expectations for my second baby’s personality and appearance, in reality, I don’t have a clue. And that’s got me pretty excited.
My wife loves when our son sleeps in our bed.
It’s tight, he inevitably chooses some weird, awkward position that usually involves one of his feet in her face or my crotch, but she loves it. Even when his presence makes any actual sleep totally impossible and leaves her completely exhausted the next day.
If I’m being honest, I love it too. Because I know it’s not going to last.
Sometimes watching sports and being a (good) parent is a tough combination. Especially when you’re a Dolphins fan.
I don’t have much to cheer for these days, but I do have plenty to cheer against (primarily the Patriots, Jets, and Bills). Unfortunately, there’s a five-year-old around most of the time, which makes talking smack about my rivals a lot harder.
But I think I may have found a solution. Thank God Detective Munch can’t read!