I’ve been writing a lot of lists lately.
As a result, my friend at AskYourDadBlog – a far nicer, far more successful, far more irritating outfit – thought he’d be clever and insult my recent rash of list-making by suggesting a new one, called “10 Ways Having Kids is Like Writing a List About Things That Are Like Having Kids.”
Joke’s on him though, because I DID it. And it’s glorious. And it fills me with (more) self-loathing.
This morning I helped my son get dressed for school.
It involved choosing superhero underwear (Green Lantern), choosing a superhero shirt (Batman), putting on superhero socks (Spider-man) and tying on a superhero cape (an inexplicably sparkly and inexplicably yellow Batman cape, which he was unhappily forced to take off before leaving the house).
It won’t be long before Detective Munch doesn’t need my help getting dressed or tying his cape on, which would be a little sad, if helping him put his clothes on didn’t usually devolve into a wrestling match at the end of which I need help tying something on (i.e., 500 beers). But that day hasn’t come yet.
Thankfully, there are a few steps before we get there.
It’s Halloween! Which seems like an appropriate time for a Zombie Post.
In browsing my blog archives, I realized I have countless posts about how terrifying it is to be a parent and how scary the job of raising a human being is. The post I’m resurrecting today is about how frightening kids themselves can be (I’ve also written more than one of those).
This one compares my increasingly independent toddler (two and a half, at the time I wrote it) with a poltergeist. Things get a lot more complicated once your kid can walk and talk and behave somewhat independently, especially when he suddenly starts moving things around the house, when until recently he couldn’t even move himself!
I wrote this post a mere eight months ago. Since then, my son has passed the Bar exam and filmed his own sex tape. Talk about SCARY!
Original Post: The Amityville Toddler
We’d wanted one for years.
As soon as we got married, we started planning for it. We knew we’d need a bigger place first, and should probably try to save up a little too. But there was never going to be a perfect time for it. We just had to take the plunge, come what may.
It would change our lives, without a doubt. But we were confident the benefits would make it worthwhile. We watched our friends with envy and we knew we had to do it too.
So we did it. We finally got ourselves a King-size mattress.
Unfortunately, then we had a kid.
Thank you all for coming. I’m sure my toddler will appreciate it years from now, when we show him pictures and explain everything, since he’s barely three and doesn’t understand what it’s all about and won’t remember a single moment.
It’s been a tough couple of days since Lovey left us, particularly for Detective Munch, who has lost his sidekick, his snot rag, his bunkmate, his whipping boy, his partner-in-crime, his napkin…
His best friend.
It’s a sad day, but we’re here to celebrate a life well-lived, not mourn an untimely – but inevitable – passing. Let’s face it, if Lovey hadn’t been lost, he probably would’ve disintegrated; dude was FILTHY. (By which I mean: well-loved.)
Despite my incredible and potentially family-exploding advice, I am not a parenting expert.
But neither was Giorgio a musical prodigy when he discovered the sound of the future. Nor was penicillin discovered on purpose.
Sometimes you just get lucky.
Like I did when I discovered the key to successful parenting.
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.
September is a busy month for the Buried clan.
My birthday was last week, my son’s was yesterday, and my anniversary is today. Tomorrow, I file for bankruptcy!
There are two reasons this blog exists: my wife and my son, and they are interchangeable. There wouldn’t be one without the other. It’s like the chicken and the egg. Except obviously my wife had to come first. Otherwise I’d have a lot of explaining to do.
So while yesterday I celebrated my son, today I celebrate my wife. Actually, in November I celebrate my wife; on her birthday. But also today. And on Christmas. And Valentine’s Day. And Mother’s Day. And a few random days throughout the year when she doesn’t expect it because if you don’t do that women start complaining that the romance is gone and where is the passion and you used to try harder before we were married and let me stop this right now because I LOVE being married and here are six reasons (in honor of our sixth anniversary!) why.
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