Five Essential Baby Items

Five Essential Baby Items

Having your first kid is not easy. Despite all the books and the advice, there’s really have no way of knowing what you’re getting into or what you’ll need to survive it all. Every parent gets a bunch of crap when they are having a kid, and a fair amount of it are things that they initially have no real idea what to do with – until they suddenly need to figure it out REAL QUICK.

It’s kind of like a computer game where you collect all sorts of random items you can’t fathom any use for, and then you get to a specific puzzle and it suddenly becomes clear that the only way to solve it is by using that jar of butt paste you somehow acquired way back when.

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My Little Bronies

My Little Bronies

This morning, my brother alerted me to this story in the Wall Street Journal, about a burgeoning subculture of older people (read: teens and up) who are enthusiastic about the new version of the “My Little Pony” cartoon.

Older male people.

As a free thinking liberal who supports gay marriage, female hockey players and David Bowie, I have no problem with this on any kind of gender-stereotyping level. Besides, there’s a good chance that my previous sentence, in which I lump these male “Pony” enthusiasts in with homosexuals, is potentially offensive to the aforementioned “bronies.” (Yes, bronies. That’s what they call themselves. I know, right?)

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Crock of Ages

Crock of Ages

This entire blog is dedicated to my attempt at staving off the inevitability of becoming something I hate:

One of those people who is known as a parent first and a person second. One of those people who can’t seem to talk about anything except kids and kid-related stuff. One of those people who goes to bed at 8pm because parenting is so tiring, who stops having fun (read: drinking) because parenting is so all-consuming. One of those people who only listens to kids music, who only watches children’s programming, or who only hangs out with other parents.

Or one of those people who relays his child’s age in months. Today, I failed.

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Shut Up Already!

Shut Up Already!

I’m dying to say that to my son. If only he could talk back, so I could harshly put him down. The ability to use verbal abuse is one of the many privileges of being a parent and I’m looking forward to – pun intended – abusing it.

The irony is that when he’s a teenager he’ll turn the tables on me with never-ending sarcasm and constant disrespectfulness; but that’s when I bust out the PHYSICAL ABUSE, Good Will Hunting-style. If there’s anything Papa Hunting knew how to do, it was how to beat the genius into somebody, whether he used a belt, stick or wrench.

But back to my son. He isn’t talking back just yet, but he is talking, at least a little. Or maybe it’s more like “talk.”

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