I love my kids, I just hate parenting
Every morning, when we ask my son what he wants to wear today, he says “Gabba!”
Every day. No matter that we’re deep into fall and his “Yo Gabba Gabba” shirt has short sleeves. He wants to wear it every day. I kind of suspect that he thinks “Gabba” means “clothes.”
“What do you want to wear today?”
“Clothes!”
“You got it, kid!”
But this Halloween, we took him at his word and went one further with his request. He wore a full-fledged DJ Lance Rock costume.
A few weeks ago I got wind of something called “Blogger Idol.”
It’s an online contest run by a couple of insane, obviously bored, objectively wonderful people in an effort to publicize and award some of the best blog writing on the internet.
This is the second year of the competition and after submitting an audition explaining my blog and why I’m the greatest, I find myself among the 13 finalists. Unfortunately, now I’m forced to write an assignment every week in an attempt to outlast the other 12 contestants and win it all.
Like “American Idol” itself, advancement relies on a combination of judges impressions and fans, votes. Which is where you come in.
The title of this post is an exact quote from my wife. Thanks, honey?
It’s a borderline offensive thing to say, but she’s right. No one knew I’d be, let alone expected me to be, a great dad. Or even a good one. Not her. Not you. Least of all me.
Okay. Maybe least of all you.
Earlier this week I wrote about the five baby-related items that made our first year as parents a little more bearable. These were all items in which our son had little say; because they were for us, not for him.
But now, as we get closer to Christmas, and our son gets closer to self-awareness, we have to take begin taking his “interests” into consideration.
Read more about The Anti-Christmas List: Five Gifts My Son Won’t Be Getting …