When you’re a kid, all you want for Christmas, or Hanukkah, or your birthday, are toys. All kinds of toys. Board games, action figures, lightsabers, it barely matters. They’re fun, and they make you happy.
When you’re parent, those same toys become a major source of irritation. They clutter your home, they empty your wallet, they give you a headache…
If you’re lucky.
I know what you’re thinking: why hasn’t Dad and Buried written about his son’s penis?
Well, you’re in luck!
Disclaimer: This isn’t a parenting post, per se. Unless, like me, you have kids and are scared for their safety. Then it’s definitely a parenting post.
Here’s the thing: The problem isn’t with people who own guns, or even with people who are in the NRA.
It’s with people who think owning a gun is something to brag about. Or, short of that, people who think, after all the carnage of the past day/month/year/decade/century/HISTORY, the NRA is a cool crew to ride with. These are people whom, indirectly or not, the NRA has patiently and purposefully cultivated and manipulated into seeing no distinction between owning a gun and owning EVERY GUN, between owning a gun for hunting and sport and owning a gun for sex appeal and status and a largely mythical idea of “self-defense.” People who see no distinction between gun control and fascism, between finding a solution and taking away freedom.
I don’t care if you own a gun. I docare if you think the NRA is a noble institution and that being a member is worth boasting about.
Back when I was single, the internet barely existed.
Social media certainly wasn’t a thing yet; I graduated college before Facebook even launched. And online dating? It was something only the most desperate, undesirable people did to find love.
The fact that I met Mom and Buried through the internet used to inspire chuckles. If it happened today, no one would even blink. Of course, today, if I were looking for someone via an online service, it wouldn’t be for a romantic dinner. It would be for some parenting backup!
I wonder what Tinder for parents would look like?
Yesterday, I spent almost 90 minutes at the playground with my son, watching as he raced around with friends old and new, pretending to be a superhero, playing impromptu games of tag, and participating in climbing competitions and slide-caravans.
He knew I was there, and occasionally sought me out if there was a conflict or he wanted a drink, but otherwise he didn’t need me much.
So I scrolled Twitter and checked Facebook and sent a few emails and texts.
This makes me a bad parent?