I love my kids, I just hate parenting
So last week was kind of shitty.
Taxes screwed us. The New York City public school system lottery screwed us. I got sunburn. I went to the dentist. My landlord raised the rent. I got spoiled on “The Americans”. I thought Harrison Ford kind of ruined the Star Wars trailer. It was pretty lame all around.
As a result, I found myself in a bit of a funk for a few days. Thank god I have a kid.
My kid is smart… maybe. It’s still hard to tell; he’s only four years old! Even Mozart was eating Play-Doh when he was four.
Kids are stupid. It’s one of the reasons they’re so annoying and stressful. But it’s also one of the perks.
I’ve said before that I can’t wait for my son to grow up, so I can see who he becomes. But lately I’ve been reconsidering.
I kind of like him dumb. Stupid kids are better!
I was raised Catholic, took Communion every weekend for the first seventeen years of my life, attended catechism classes, got confirmed, went to Catholic high school, spent four years at a Jesuit university… and then almost immediately stopped believing in any of it.
Despite my atheism, Mom and Buried and I have considered raising our son with some kind of religious background, and letting him decide for himself if he wants to run with it. Because having a foundation in something can be a positive thing, and for all its faults, religion can instill positive values that needn’t always be married to harmful dogma or bizarre myth.
So maybe we’ll teach him about the guy who was born from a virgin and rose from the dead and knows everything about everyone. But we’ll never teach him about the Easter Bunny. Talk about absurd!
There’s this intersection where I grew up, not far from my parents’ house, which gives me pause every time I drive through it.
Years ago, right after I got my license, I got into a car accident at that intersection. As I was turning left under the light, I somehow missed one car that hadn’t yet cleared the way. I walked away dazed but unscathed, my mother’s beloved Maxima crumpled up behind me.
When I visit my hometown, I inevitably find myself back at the scene of the crime. It’s impossible to go anywhere worthwhile (i.e., the package store, the bar, the restaurant with all the beer) without crossing that intersection. And every time I drive past it, I recall – if not relive – that accident. And I wonder what I could have done differently. Which isn’t entirely healthy.
It reminds me of being a parent.
Read more about Watching the Detective …
A few years ago, I wrote a post in which I declared that my son would never play organized football due to the health risks. When it ran on The Huffington Post this past fall, I got some angry comments.
So I was a little surprised when the people at the Esquire Network (check your local listings!) reached out and asked if I’d be interested in writing about the second season of their TV show about youth football in Texas, “Friday Night Tykes.”
I agreed, and have since viewed the first two episodes of the season (the third airs tonight at 9PM EST on Esquire Network). Has my opinion changed?
The short answer? Not one bit.