I love my kids, I just hate parenting
A few weeks ago, the Buried clan went on a road trip during Detective Munch’s spring break.
We spent a few days in Washington D.C. and then spent the latter half of the week, and Easter weekend, with Mom and Buried’s family in South Carolina. Then we drove the full fourteen hours back while The Hammer battled a fever and the world’s most prolific runny nose and we battled headaches, frustration, and traffic.
Spring break ain’t what it used to be…
I still remember the night I got a call from my oldest friend and he told me his wife was pregnant. I’ve known this dude since the second grade (Turkey Hill Elementary School Class of ’88 represent!) and he was the first friend of mine to become a parent. It was a big deal.
I was young at the time, and drunk at the time (and maybe other things at the time?) and I had some strong suggestions for how he should raise his child. Living the single life in Southie, having kids of my own was still a long way off for me, but that didn’t matter. I had OPINIONS.
Even just thinking about it makes me hate myself. I knew nothing. More than 12 years later, I still know nothing. Nothing except the stuff I wish I hadn’t done.
No parent enjoys it when the kids are sick. Especially when the kid is a baby or a toddler.
After a while, though – provided it’s just a cold and not cancer (god forbid) – their ill-health shifts from being nerve-wracking and a source of anxiety to being annoying and a source of irritation. My baby has had a fever for the last few nights and I’m sick and tired of it!
Emphasis on tired.
I always wanted two kids.
And I always wanted them to be close in age — no more than two or three years — so they could grow up together and be friends. After I had my first son, my mind didn’t change, but my circumstances did. Having another kid became impossible for a few years, and the possibility of a two- or three-year age gap evaporated.
We ended up with a five-year gap. And so far, so good.
In the six short years of his life, my son has discovered many new things.
From the taste of an iPhone to the joy of farting and from the delightful sound a messy belly-based raspberry makes to the ear-piercing “welp!” a knee to Daddy’s crotch can elicit, the early years of a child’s life are full of amazing new discoveries. Some of which are innocent and fun, others of which portend a forthcoming decade-plus of agita and frustration for parents.
Like Detective Munch’s discovery and immediate appropriation of lying. And, thanks to his little brother, a newfound awareness of blame.