I love my kids, I just hate parenting
We’re going on a family vacation in two weeks!
That’s right, at the end of April, we will be visiting a tropical island to soak up the sun and relax for a few days. But don’t be too jealous, it’s called a “family vacation” because for some reason we’re bringing both kids.
I might get accidentally lost in the airport and send Mom and Buried alone.
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.
On Easter Sunday, or, as I like to call it, Spring Christmas, my son got approximately thirty different baskets full of candy and toys.
It’s understandable that my family, which is largely devoid of small children to spoil, is so enthusiastic about doting on my five-year-old. But that doesn’t make his ridiculous bounty any easier to stomach. When I was a kid, I got some chocolate, some peeps, and a stupid kite. My son got an unhealthy amount of Cadbury eggs, enough Peeps to caulk a bathtub, and several LEGO sets.
To add insult to injury, I was forced to assemble the sets. It did not go well.
My wife is pregnant. Capital-P pregnant. Like, nearly ten months, ready to burst, hating life, “why did I do this?” pregnant.
I am not pregnant. But, out of solidarity, I spent the holidays doing my best to make it seem like I was. Because I’m a good husband.
And a stupid idiot.
This isn’t about dangerous toys. I honestly wouldn’t even know where to begin such a list. When I was a kid, if you wore a bike helmet you were King Dork of Nerd Mountain. Nowadays, you need a helmet just to ride the school bus or you’ll end up suing the NFL.
The standards for safety have changed so drastically that I’ve pretty much stopped giving my kid anything that has corners. (I’m not even joking: my son has never had a Saltine. NOTHING BUT RITZ.)
Instead, this list is about the worst gifts for kids. Not all kids, like I said, I can’t speak to that. These are the worst gifts to buy your own children.