I love my kids, I just hate parenting
Parenting is stressful.
It’s challenging, it’s tiring, and worst of all, it’s important. I don’t care if you have one kid, two kids, five kids, or are the Duggars. Being a parent is like living inside a pressure cooker. And, it gets hotter every day.
Especially when you turn up the heat by having multiple children. You know what they say: Mo kids mo problems!
As you may know, I spent last week in Turks and Caicos.
It was gorgeous. Warm and sunny and, aside from the pristine ocean and the hotel pools, dry. Mom and Buried and Detective Munch started our last day in the warm tropical water and ended our last day in the cold, miserable rain outside Newark airport. It was quite the jarring shift, especially when the rain continued all weekend.
Further dampening (NAILED IT!) my mood was the realization that Mother’s Day is around the corner. I was exhausted (vacation with kids is no joke), and had little motivation to leave the house. Especially not in the rain.
But I had to go shopping.
I guess I’m a party pooper. My son turned five in September, and as usual, my wife threw him an elaborate and expensive birthday party, complete with a theme, of course. Now that we have another kid to celebrate, the birthday party nightmare is only going to get worse.
When Detective Munch turned one, it was a circus theme. For two, it was Yo Gabba Gabba! At three, it was all about trains, and at four, he and his friends got capes and dressed as superheroes. This time around, it was a pirate-themed affair, complete with invitations that looked like—and were actually burned at the edges to look like—old treasure maps, a corresponding treasure hunt, and plastic swords and eye-patches for all the scurvy little dogs to take home and subsequently use to terrorize their parents.
It was fun. My son had fun, his friends had fun, everyone had fun. Even the adults! (We provided beer and mimosas because WE’RE NOT MONSTERS.) That doesn’t mean I want to do it again.
My son’s first crush has reared its head.
There’s a girl in his kindergarten class that he’s constantly pretending to marry. I don’t know if his proposal involves an engagement ring, he has no money, and he may not even know about that part of the ritual yet. But I’m pretty sure he’ll learn about it soon.
Because despite an ancient screenplay I wrote that flipped the script by having girls propose to guys with an “engagement watch,” odds are the diamond ring will maintain its hegemony for at least another generation or so. So he’d better start saving now!
Referring to the months leading up to the Hammer’s arrival as “stressful” is a massive understatement.
I was out of my mind with anxiety, from worries about future restrictions on money and and sleep and time, to concerns about both the baby’s and Mom and Buried’s health, to wondering how I would possible survive the post-delivery ban on sex, my mind was overwhelmed with fear and uncertainty.
Now, of course – exactly as I kept telling myself it would be all along (to little avail) – everything is fine.