As a youngster, I used to enjoy writing “Weird Al”-style song parodies. I wrote one that changed the title of one of my favorite Saturday morning cartoons to “Muppet Rabies”. I told a story about a classmate who appeared on “Teen Jeopardy” by re-purposing the tune of Rush’s “Tom Sawyer”. At a friend’s request, I once wrote something bashing Derek Jeter and jammed it inside an Eminem song.
As I grew older, I occasionally found a new outlet for this supreme waste of time.
A few years ago, I helped my wife alter some lyrics to the song “Razzle Dazzle” so she could perform it at her company’s talent show (don’t ask). And just last year I whipped up a “Paradise City” parody that referenced Pope Benedict’s abrupt retirement and posted it on Twitter. It’s been retweeted 1,314 times and is easily my most popular tweet, even though I’ve written several about potty training.
I just can’t seem to stop writing the stupid parodies, and yet I’ve never written one about my son (unless you include the one where I sing his name to the tune of the “CHiPs” theme song). Until now. I apologize in advance for wasting your time.
I’ve seen some pretty stupid articles on the internet. Like the one about Frozen having a gay agenda. Or the one about Obama being a Muslim. Or the one about Andy’s mom having once been a child. YEAH RIGHT.
As most people know, there’s no such thing as reincarnation. As most parents know, the only person their kid is a reincarnation of is Mommy or Daddy. And apparently maybe Hitler.
It’s terrible when your kid gets sick. Especially when he barely knows it.
My son is three and a half, and this winter he’s had a few tough colds. The coughing, the sore throat, the eternally running nose (although he’s had one of those since he was born, so that’s more of a curse than a health issue), all have reared their heads at one time or another, much to our dismay. Of course, being a resilient, happy-go-lucky kind of guy, Detective Munch barely seems to notice his own symptoms.
Unfortunately, his preschool does notice them. His teachers are like dogs; they can smell sickness. So he’s forced to stay home. And that is a huge hassle.
To tell you the truth, I don’t remember a lot about it.
I remember the panic. I remember the dark smudges on my son’s face. I remember sitting in the emergency room watching “30 Rock” on mute, desperately hoping we’d be able to go home soon.
I had accidentally spilled some prescription pills on the floor while my son played nearby. After cleaning them up and being unable to verify how many were in the bottle beforehand, we were terrified that he might have ingested one. It was just an accident. The bottle fell. It wasn’t sitting there open, it wasn’t within my son’s reach. It simply fell. But accident or not, it was still my fault.
Yeah, I definitely remember the panic.
I hate my son’s lovey.
You may remember the heartfelt piece I wrote a few months ago, when my son lost the stuffed-animal/blanket thing that had been his constant companion almost since he could eat solid food. This is not that piece. There’s nothing heartfelt about this one.
No, this post is different. It was originally written for the second issue of the Bad Playdate newsletter, a fun collection of items put together by another put-open parent who has seen her social life shift from a series of bad romantic dates to a series of bad play-dates, and isn’t afraid to bitch about it. She asked me to contribute a rant, and having just gone through another traumatic “where’s Lovey!” experience, this topic was fresh on my mind.
I may not be able to go off on my son, but I can go off on his stupid stuffed-animal-headed blanket thing. And go off I did…
What I like about the “Try Not Having Kids” video I’ve posted below is that while it’s aggressive in its promotion of the child-free lifestyle, it’s not afraid to make some snarky comments towards the child-free contingent.
I am a strong supporter of people not having kids, and not only in a “you’d make terrible parents” way. I like having friends who don’t have kids. It’s good for parents and non-parents to have exposure to what they’re missing, and there’s no need to pretend both lifestyles don’t have their perks.
But most importantly, the video is pretty funny. And true. Having kids ruins your (old) life.
Having a kid changes your outlook on tons of things, some big, some small. For the most part, it’s positive. Life becomes better and more interesting; things you’ve long taken for granted are suddenly seen in a new light. It’s exciting, and fun.
But kids are pretty stupid. And while their innocence can be refreshing, their ignorance is astounding. So for every aspect of life you appreciate anew when you view it through the eyes of your developing child, there are thirty mundane things that you had been ignoring on purpose that your kid suddenly thrusts back into your life. Soon you find yourself focusing on things you’d stopped wasting time thinking about on long ago, and for good reason.
Having kids both expands and corrupts every aspect of your life. Suddenly things that shouldn’t be important are, and things you used to enjoy without a second thought become sudden minefields.
Lately I’ve been getting push-back on some of the content on my blog. Some people wish I would tone it down a bit.
Unfortunately, I started this blog as an antidote to “toned-down”. I wanted it to be as honest as possible, and, failing that, to exaggerate in the opposite direction, away from “everything is amazing!” and towards “everything sucks!” I’d rather be prepared for the worst than disappointed when it happens, especially since the worst parts of parenthood don’t hold a candle to the best parts. So why sugarcoat stuff that doesn’t need sugar-coating?
But I get it. It makes you sad when I insult my son, even jokingly. You’re worried that this sweet little boy might stumble across my blog and “discover” that his father hates him. First of all, by the time my kid can read, he’ll understand my sense of humor better than any of you might. Better yet, he’ll know how I truly feel about him, and that not even the most vicious blog post could accurately convey my level of hatred. And finally, I hope he does read my blog, preferably when he’s around 16, and it makes him feel like shit, because if he’s anything like I was as a teenager, his punk ass will deserve to.
It’s okay, though. You can stop crying, because I’m going to throw you a bone and write a sincere, heartfelt blog post – hyperbole-free! – to let you know the truth about what my parenting experience is really like.