I love my kids, I just hate parenting
Over the weekend, professional golfer Rory McIlroy won the Open Championship. In the process he netted $1.66 million.
His father, meanwhile, scored big himself, having placed a bet in 2005 that his son would win the Open Championship by 2015. Daddy McIlroy collected (approximately) $171,000 merely for having confidence in his son’s golfing ability.
Which got me thinking…
What would I bet on my own son to accomplish within the next 10 years?
It’s not just for “deviants” anymore.
Thanks to Hollywood and liberals and HBO (probably), the behavior has gone mainstream. We’re all associated with it. We all have that relative or coworker or classmate. A favorite actor or musician. Even a favorite athlete! Hell, I bet some of you even experimented with it in college. (I was too scared of catching something.)
It’s amazing to think that, as recently as a decade ago, people into this kind of thing were still being shamed, stigmatized and stereotyped by the behavior. They were once even discriminated against – though my hesitation at using the word “once” belies the fact that, in 2014, they somehow still are discriminated against, in both closed-minded inner circles and wide-open public forums, but their presence and their prominence and their confidence! have never been stronger.
A reader recently asked me whether such people are suited to be parents, and I chuckled. It’s absurd that it’s even a question, in this day and age. Aren’t we past this shallow, judgmental bullshit yet?
Sorry, bigots, but having a tattoo (or two) just isn’t a big deal.
Most of the fears you have as a parent involve unlucky things, unfair things. Accidents and disasters, illnesses and tragedy. Most of the fears you have as a parent involve things that aren’t supposed to happen.
But the scariest nightmare of all is neither an accident nor unlucky. In fact, you’re lucky if it does happen. It’s what you want to happen. It’s how life is supposed to go. Your children are supposed to live healthy lives and grow up and become teenagers.
Too bad it sucks so much when they do.
So we have this baby gate. No, we’re not embroiled in some shocking political controversy involving a baby (Babygate, coming soon to theaters near you!), it’s an actual gate for babies.
Like all baby gates, it’s used to prevent babies (and toddlers) from getting places they shouldn’t, particularly staircases (and the Oval Office!). Having exclusively lived in urban apartments, we haven’t had that much need for it, because an apartment with stairs is not an apartment we can afford. However, for the past few months, Detective Munch has been in Grandma and Pop-pop’s house, and Grandma and Pop-pop’s house has stairs. So the baby gate was put back to work.
Except not really. Because I never close it. Because I’m a terrible father.
![[E-card] The Incredible Toddler](https://dadandburied.com/wp-content/themes/llorix-one-lite/images/no-thumbnail-mobile.jpg)