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.
Having kids is a constant test. Of your patience, your mettle, your marriage and constantly, your gag reflex. A year ago at this time, my son was hosting Hand, Foot and Mouth disease. It was gross, and we survived. Then he got it again. Shouldn’t there be a limit to unconditional love? This June, heRead more about Zombie Post: Love Trumps All, Unfortunately[…]
Every Spring, for the past two years, I have been faced with a crippling bout of allergies. I never really had them before, so their onset is a tad confusing. I’ve lived in NYC for more than four years now, in the same neighborhood, so as much as this Red Sox fan would love to, I can’t blame the Big Apple.
I’d like to blame the trees, but Marky Mark made that seem too ridiculous. I’d also like to blame The Trees, but my days of listening to Rush were long gone well before the allergies set in.
So after a brief, slightly ill-considered, largely well-inebriated period of elimination, I’ve come to a startling conclusion: I’m allergic to my son.