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.
I guess I’m not the same as most dads. Or most dad-bloggers.
I’m a member of the Facebook Dadbloggers community (come and join us!), and through it I’ve met a lot of great dads, some with blogs big, some with blogs small, some with no blogs at all! (Seriously. There’s a guy.) I get along with all of them, give or take, but I’m not the most vocal member of the group.
I think that’s because my sensibility is a little bit different. For example, I enjoyed the following video.
Children are surprisingly intelligent and perceptive. Except when they’re not.
My son knows to lie to get what he wants, he knows how to push our buttons to piss us off, he knows how to work my iPhone and he knows I didn’t really steal his nose. I bet yours is the same way; kids are always smarter than you expect. And yet despite their mad skills, on an emotional level they are total morons.
Mine still can’t figure out when an emotional breakdown is warranted (never) and when one isn’t (when your banana breaks).
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.
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.
I’ve been a parent for just about three years (though I haven’t felt like one for that long). I repeatedly admit my total lack of parenting know-how, partially because there is no one right way to parent, partially because I have no idea what I’m doing.
And yet people keep asking me what to do.
Not on my advice page, unfortunately, but in real life.
I can hardly believe my son will be three in a month. Time really flies!
Of course, if he is really phasing out his daily nap, I’m gonna start aging even faster than he is.
It finally happened! A British woman gave birth!
I’ll never understand the hoopla about a famous person having a baby. This time around, it’s so extreme that it almost seems put on. Like we’re all starved for something stupid to focus on. Escapism at its limey-ist. Oh well. I have little to say on the topic, at least nothing I haven’t already said in the post below.
That’s right: in honor of the Artist Currently Known As Prince, I’ve resurrected a post I wrote a few months back. It originally ran when the Duchess was having intense morning sickness and reporters were camping out, hoping to catch a whiff. The frenzy didn’t make sense then and it doesn’t make sense now.
I do feel a bit bad for the Royal couple though. As I mentioned in the post below, having a baby is a pain in the ass any way you cut it. I don’t imagine having Al Roker’s face poking in your window makes things any easier. Someone on Twitter asked if I had any advice for William and Kate, and I said, “Yeah: MOVE.”
I guess I should’ve said “abdicate.”
Original Post: A Royal Pain