Parenting is boring.
My son and I don’t have a lot in common. Aside from shockingly good genes and a mutual appreciation for Mom and Buried, our differences outweigh our similarities. Being that he’s only two, I imagine it will be that way for some time.
But I hope we find some common ground soon because without it, hanging out with my son is boring.
My wife is out-of-town so I have been on my own with my son (give or take a grandparent or two) since Wednesday morning. And it has not been easy.
Even at my parents, with a backyard to roam and new toys to play with and backup from my mom and dad and my brothers and the occasional visitor and the mailman and that guy who dropped off the dry cleaning and anyone else who is willing to take him off my hands for a few minutes, keeping a toddler occupied for an entire day is hard work. Especially when you haven’t had the benefit of sleeping in every other morning or so (my wife and I try to alternate who gets up with him). I’m completely exhausted and at my wit’s end, EVERY DAY, by 10AM.
Without my wife around to help (“help” meaning “take over”), I am fresh out of ideas by the time he’s ready for his mid-day nap. And thank god for that nap. Two to three hours of freedom! Except when he decides to skip the nap, which has been happening lately and is seriously making me reconsider joining the military just to get a break.
I don’t know how my wife does it; she must just relate to him on a level that I have not yet reached. Maybe it’s because he lived inside her body for almost a year and they have a special otherworldly bond as a result. Maybe she just has more patience for children than I do. Maybe she loves him more than I do. Maybe it’s simply that she is crazy about playing with blocks and trains and board books and plastic kitchens. I have no idea.
Don’t get me wrong: I love my son (I’m starting to feel like “don’t get me wrong, I love my son” should be my motto). I love hanging out with him and playing with him and spending time with him. I am aware of how lucky I am to be able to do that, especially in the face of generations like my father’s and my grandfather’s, when both circumstances and society forced them to spend the balance of their days at work and bonding with their children was a luxury. Fortunately for me, I am currently “underemployed” as they say (“they” being “assholes”), so I have the benefit of extra time with my son. Time I cherish and do NOT take for granted.
But I can’t lie: I am BORED OUT OF MY MIND.
It’s not his fault; his personality is stellar and he’s a laugh a minute. But he’s a good 30 years younger than me and we just don’t share the same viewpoints. Toddlers are boring! Parenting is boring!
We can’t talk sports; he has NO IDEA who I should take in the second round of my fantasy draft. We can’t watch TV together; his delicate sensibilities can’t handle Breaking Bad and I can’t sit through another segment with Mr. Noodle’s brother Mr. Noodle. I can’t take him to the gym because he insists on touching my nipples whenever I take my shirt off and that is against gym policy. We can’t go to the bars together… well, actually we can, I live in Park Slope, but neither of us has a ton of fun when we do (he’s s a terrible drunk).
So we’re stuck going to the playground every day so he can go up and down steps and slides and swings and I can have a heart attack watching the idiot six-year-olds sprint towards my son without paying attention. And we’re stuck taking out the toy train tracks so he can destroy my perfect oval every time because he doesn’t understand how TRACKS WORK. And we’re stuck playing catch in the living room until the ball goes under the couch for the fiftieth time because I am SICK OF IT.
I love my son, I love spending time with him and I wouldn’t trade these unexpected, unemployment-provided extra hours with him for the world. I know I’ll be back to work soon and I’ll look back at this blog post and hate myself for writing it. But the fact is we can’t have a real conversation and we don’t like the same music and he just wants to play with his toy cash register and it’s BORING.
Again, I don’t know how my wife does it. But I desperately want her to come home and do it again.
Mr. Noodle’s Brother Mr. Noodle. That guy. Oh my god, I rue the day I ever discovered Elmo’s world. When my son isn’t watching that show, he’s demanding, “Mama, Lalala…,” and I’m stuck singing that god-awful theme song that contains two freakin’ words.
Tell momandburied that I’m jealous she’s away without the babe. I’ve been banned from the state of MA without the little guy by my side, so we did your week back in June in reverse.
My son screams out “Yooooooooooo GABBA GABBA!” at regular intervals with no prompting. TV is the devil.
M&B was quite nervous about going away for so long, not because she was worried we’d burn things down (at least, not ONLY worried because of that) but because it would be so long away from the munch. And it was a pretty hectic trip for her.
Thankfully she’s back tomorrow so I am off duty for a while…(knock on wood)
Oh my god. My daughter does this too! She’ll just yell out, “Elmo! Elmo! lalala!” And then I have to sing. If I don’t sing it’s meltdown city. The worst is I played the song on my phone one time, and now every goddamn time she sees a cell phone she’s reaching for it and screaming “Elmosongelmosongelmosong!”
Women have the ability to exist on two planes at once. We can simultaneously present a smiling face and utter simple two word sentences or do repetitive things like tossing a ball or pushing a god-awful noisy button, while letting our mind wander, hand in hand with some sexy pool boy, on some nice warm beach. That’s how.
Plus, most toddlers do entertain themselves at a certain point and you can mix in some just-make-sure-they-don’t-hurt-themselves time in with interactive play. You just have to sit nearby with something in your hand so they *think* you’re playing. (I shouldn’t have said that. I gave away a babysitter-secret.)
I went through the exact same thing and now that my son is three, he’s a lot less boring. He can be pretty fun to hang out with because I can actually throw balls to him and he can throw them back. That is, assuming he even wants to hang out with me and not mommy.
Oh my goodness, I can so relate to this. My wife is an academic and needs to research things in other cities and yours truly gets to look after our 20 month-old. I never realised how close to hell play areas in shopping centres could become. As you hoist him up onto the slide for a 38th time, surely your watch must have gone round more than, what, no, 3 MINUTES?!
Then to the indoor play areas which are, actually good fun for adults too, but there are, as you say, the 6 year-olds who race around oblivious to the little guy or say “Oh, a baby.”. To which you think “Hey, you were this size once and 20 months is NOT a baby but a toddler.” (And then you secretly hurl a plastic ball at them – but miss…)