I love my kids, I just hate parenting
The other day, after Mom and Buried mentioned something about Father’s Day to Detective Munch, he responded by complaining about the fact that there isn’t a “kid’s day.”
Have you stopped laughing?
A child asking why there isn’t a kids’ day is like a white dude chanting “ALL LIVES MATTER” or a Meninist existing.
EVERY DAY IS KID’S DAY, JUNIOR.
Recently, I wrote about some of the positive things my son has inherited from me, mostly by dint of genetics and osmosis. Which is to say accidentally. Give or take The Beatles.
I don’t like to brag, which is why I’m going to do it again today! Only this time there’s nothing accidental about the things I’m going to discuss. Because these aren’t traits my son was handed down, or music I’ve indoctrinated him into. These are things I’ve done right as a parent, on purpose!
Because I am the greatest parent alive!
I’ve written about my father before, but I’ve never really written about my mom. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much to say. It’s scary to write about her! How can I do my mom justice? How can anyone?
I don’t know that I’d call myself a “mama’s boy” because I’m too much of a jerk for that – and every time I go home I revert to being a teenager again, which means I’m even less nice to everyone than normal, no matter how long I was in your womb! – but moms are pretty special, and it’s hard to capture every reason why. In the case of my mom, it’s particularly hard, because she’s so nice.
It’s hard to praise niceness. Niceness can seem bland. But there’s nothing bland about my mom.
We had our second kid a little more than a year ago.
Having a baby around, after being five-plus years removed from that part of the process, was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done required some quick re-learning of some forgotten skills.
Thankfully, it was a bit like riding a bike. Riding a shit-stained bike through an obstacle course of crumbs, toys, and instantly outgrown onesies while totally exhausted to the point of hallucination, but a bike nonetheless.
So far, we’ve managed, but not without my parenting survival list.
Last night, after tucking Detective Munch into bed and heading towards the door, he called me back. He often does this, usually it’s to ask me for a drink of water or to turn up the lights a little or to give him another kiss and hug. This time, he had something else in mind.
He called me back to his bedside not for extra TLC or to delay going to sleep with some other random request. No, he called me back to scold me and to remind me to finish the items on Mom and Buried’s honey-do list.
I’m okay with him being on Team Mom. I just don’t like losing to them so much!