My son can talk, which is great. Less great is that he can’t seem to stop talking.
Seriously. My kid never stops babbling. But that’s okay. The trouble isn’t that he talks, or even what he says, since a lot of the things he says are cute. Because he says things he doesn’t understand, and it’s hilarious when kids say darnd things. I won’t brag and say my son says the darndEST things, because I’m not a braggart, and besides, that’s for Bill Cosby to decide. But Detective Munch definitely says some pretty darnd things.
The trouble begins when we listen.
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.
But nothing is as stupid as this one. Sorry, this one. It was on HuffPo the other day (I post on there!), and it’s about how to tell if your kid was reincarnated.
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.
Raising kids often feels like a contact sport. Or an endurance test. Or both. It’s actually more like 50 different sports all wrapped up in one. In short, it’s like the Olympics.
Maybe it’s not cross-country skiing, and it’s definitely not a biathlon (guns don’t kill people, terrible gun laws allow people to easily kill by other people with guns), but it’s certainly something of a a marathon. It might even be curling, but I don’t understand curling, so we’re sticking with marathon, and maybe some ice dancing (I don’t understand that either).
I’ve never participated in the Olympic games, but I have seen them on TV. A lot. They’re always on. And after years of being a spectator, I’ve come to the conclusion that watching the Olympics is not that different from having kids.
In what ways, you say? Funny you should ask.
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.
Countless couples and would-be couples are, as we speak, scrambling to find romantic ways to mark the occasion. It’s stressful and time-consuming and expensive and, for those without sweethearts, frustrating and pathetic and why does God hate me?!
We all know that in it’s modern-day incarnation, it’s a holiday propped up by candy companies and card companies and restaurants and Yankee Candle, and yet even those of us who reject the concept often end up making some kind of concession to it, if only so our significant others don’t feel left out when the sheep in the office get flowers and they don’t.
Even the least cynical among us can see through the heart-shaped nonsense to the heartless industry behind it, so why do we get our kids involved?
Just when you thought it was safe to turn on NBC, the Olympics are back. Again. I swear, ever since they started alternating the Winter and Summer games, it seems like they’re always on, or almost on, or were just on.
They’re fine. Some of the sports are great. If there’s a real story – Michael Phelps, Jeff Gillooly, pink eye – they are a lot of fun. But otherwise they can be a bit tedious, especially two full weeks of them.
But the tedium I feel watching them must be NOTHING compared to what the parents of Olympic athletes have to endure.
The prospect of my son getting so enamored with speed-skating or sprinting or ballroom dancing that he needs me to shepherd him to practices and training and competitions for fifteen straight years fills me with dread. And so the last time the Games were on, I wrote about the agony of raising your kids to be Olympians (despite all the commercials that celebrate it), and I’ve resurrected that post via the link below.
Thanks but no thanks. This is one case where I’d actually prefer a lazy kid.
Original Post: An Olympic-Sized Commitment
Like tons of little kids this winter, my son loves Frozen.
Until recently, he’d never been to a movie theater. But he’s shown the attention to span to watch full movies at home (the usual Pixar suspects, and The Polar Express, which he’s still talking about two months after Christmas, because trains + Christmas = little boy heroin), and since we’d been hearing such great things about it, we decided to take him to see the new Disney flick. (The Wolf of Wall Street was sold out.)
A month later, Frozen has seized favorite-movie status Tom Hanks’ dead-eyed motion-capture debacle, and “Let It Go” has joined “(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (to Party!)” as one of Detective Munch’s favorite songs (also on the list: “Royals” and “No Sleep ‘Til Brooklyn”).
I’ll probably be watching this movie for years to come. I’d better get something off my chest first.