I love my kids, I just hate parenting
This morning, I asked Detective Munch what he wanted for breakfast. He didn’t answer me.
You see, he was already whining about the fact that I’d asked him to get dressed before eating, because that’s not the way he usually does things, so it was perfectly understandable that he also collapsed to the ground as if he’d just gotten shot and was therefore ignoring my request for his breakfast order.
Parenting is fun!
The Hammer won’t eat anything.
For a while, we thought we had him with pieorogies, and pizza, and pancakes, but he soon abandoned his alliteration-based preferences and embarked on a hunger strike. Cooking food for him quickly became a chore when all he wanted was his bottle of milk.
He loves his snacks, though, and despite the fact that he has occasionally procured a potato chip or two (second kids FTW!), he mostly munches on Cheerios. And thank god, because not only does he actually eat them, they don’t require any prep!
If I could, I’d eat nothing but snacks.
Sure, I’d miss cheeseburgers and steak and Al Di La and sushi and all that, but give me a bag of chips – or even some raw broccoli – and a jar of french onion dip and I’m set for life.
This predilection for constant nibbling in between meals makes my role as a parent difficult. Because I am forced to stop my kids from doing the same. (Especially when it’s my snacks they’re stealing!)
If you’ve been following me on social media, you probably know that I’ve been on my own the past few days.
We were at my parents for the holiday weekend, and while I came back to NYC on Tuesday to go to work, Mom and Buried and the kids stuck around. The kids got to hang with Grandma (consequences be damned) and Mom and Buried was able to get some work done without paying for a babysitter. Or camp.
Meanwhile, I was living the high life, bachelor style! FREEDOM!
Parents aren’t special. Having children doesn’t make you a hero. To paraphrase Furious Styles, any fool can make a baby, it takes a real parent to raise kids.
It also takes a real parent to think horrifying thoughts about their kids. And if that’s the primary criterion by which parenting is measured, I’m pretty sure I’m the world’s greatest dad. Because I’m a horrible person!
For proof, witness this list of terrible thoughts only parents have, and that it’s possible only this parent has, because I’m deranged. But that’s why you love me!