I love my kids, I just hate parenting
My son is closing in on his third birthday, and he seems to be developing at an astonishing rate.
I’m not much for tracking development via checkpoints and milestones, but hardly more than a day goes by that I’m not impressed by something he says or does.
Unfortunately, not every ability he acquires is something to write home about. He’s good at a lot of things, but some of the things he’s good at are bad.
I wasn’t one of those people who used the phrase “we’re pregnant.” For one thing, that phrase diminishes the role the mother plays in childbirth, and considering that the mother’s role encompasses pretty much the whole enchilada, saying “we’re” seemed disingenuous and potentially insulting.
For another, saying it makes me feel like a douchebag.
Aside from including myself as a member of the Miami Dolphins (the 12th man!) or the Boston Red Sox (but I’ve never liked the “Red Sox Nation” thing), I’m not one to use “we” for much of anything. I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel. But I do find myself invoking some mysterious, all-encompassing “we” when explaining something to my son.
I don’t know where “we” came from. And we don’t like it.
My son loves riding the merry-go-round at our local park.
He used to prefer the stationary animals, or even one of the stupid sled things, but as he’s become more enamored with the carousel he’s graduated to the real shit: the animals that slide up and down. I’m glad; there’s little point in even going on the thing if you’re not on one of those.
On our latest trip, I saw that my wife was letting our son ride some overgrown cat thing all by himself. And she chose to ride the animal next to him, rather than stand at his side to make sure he didn’t fall off! I sat on the sidelines (I chose the bench outside because going in circles makes my tummy hurt), panicking as my moron of a son repeatedly took one hand off the pole to wave at me as he went by. Meanwhile, Mom and Buried wasn’t even breaking a sweat.
I need to woman up. My wife has bigger balls than me.
According to my son’s birth certificate, I became a father in 2010. But becoming an actual parent took longer. In fact, I think it took until last week.
When we imagine having kids, most of us have similar daydreams. Most of them focus on big moments: choosing a name, putting together a crib, going through labor, changing diapers, playing catch, taking off the training wheels, the first day of school, etc.
When I finally, actually became a dad, many of those milestones remained significant, but dozens – hundreds! – more piled up around small, everyday stuff. Every single first is a capital-F First: first burp, first smile, first poop, first solid poop, first roll-over, first sit-up, first crawl, first fall, first steps, first words…
But after a while, and folders full of pictures, you realize that those aren’t your milestones. They’re your kid’s. Here are some actual parenting milestones.
Stumbled across this Australian Public Service Announcement, and it reminded me of the Mirror Mirror post a few weeks ago. It basically shows what I told. Apparently the ad was banned, which is a shame, because I think it’s pretty effective. How about you?