I love my kids, I just hate parenting
My son is a real baby.
Of course, by developmental standards, he’s not a baby anymore. He can “walk” and “talk” and understand things like a toddler, and he’s definitely not the size of a baby, except maybe those fat asses you see on Maury Povich and Jerry Springer. When you measure by those benchmarks, he’s a toddler.
But if you measure by his ability to withstand pain? He’s a baby, through and through.
I have a confession to make: my wife is a stay-at-home mom.
She has been home with our son since the day he was born. It was a choice we made together, for a few reasons, not least of which were the facts that a) in our neck of the woods, the cost of daycare pretty much negates that second paycheck and b) we don’t trust other people. From the start we’d made the decision to forego a nanny, which are popular extravagance here in Park Slope, as we weren’t ready to hand over daily care of our son to a stranger. So we figured we’d go the first year or two on just my income, especially since it was important to us that we were home with the kid ourselves.
At this point my wife has been at home with her son every day for almost a year and a half. And we’re happy with that decision.
However…
For a minute there I honestly thought my son was a vampire.
Turns out he only had pink eye.