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.
GENIUS.
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.
I hate being a dad. Sometimes.
You know this; you’ve read my blog.
Hopefully, you’ve also understood my blog. And you know what “sometimes” means. And you understand that even when I hate being a dad, I still love it.
Not everyone understands my blog.