Ice Bucket Challenge

Ice Bucket Challenge

I am probably* late to the party but get off me! I was only challenged yesterday!

The party I’m referring to is the Ice Bucket Challenge that’s been consuming social media lately, in which someone pours a bucket of ice on their head in an effort to bring awareness to the ALS association. The idea is that the videos raise awareness, and also that the people who refuse to risk pneumonia have to donate $100 to the cause. Of course, those things aren’t mutually exclusive, and you can do both if you want to.

Even if only a fraction of the people taking part in the trend end up actually donating, the publicity has to be a positive, right?

So today, after a friend passed the challenge on to me, I hopped on the bandwagon too. And let me tell you, on a rainy night in Brooklyn, it was COLD.

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Label War

Label War

For reasons that make little sense to my readers, my wife, or even myself, I often refer to my son as Detective Munch. But that’s almost exclusively online; I never call him that to his face.

No, to his face I call him all manner of things, some of which rhyme with his actual name (there aren’t a lot of options; his actual name is Pantry), some of which rhyme with grass-pole, and most of which are just nonsense words because I’m more of a child than he is.

Aside from causing some identity-confusion that could come back to haunt us both and the occasional scolding from Mom and Buried, the nonsense nicknames I give my son are harmless. They’re just a way for me to be affectionate with him when I can’t remember his real name and don’t want him to know I’ve forgotten.

But since I don’t use his real name online, I’m starting to run out of ways to refer to him, especially as he gets older.

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What Parents Eat

What Parents Eat

Guest Post: Suburban Snapshots and the Benefits of One

Guest Post: Suburban Snapshots and the Benefits of One

The internet is weird.

Almost 15 years ago (pre-blog, pre-kid, pre-mature) at my first job after college, I briefly worked with a woman named Brenna Jennings. (I almost called it my first “real” job but I think Brenna will agree that “real” barely applies.) We weren’t exactly friends but she was a lot taller than me so that was my fault.

Cut to a decade and a half later when I recognized her name on the byline of a funny piece on The Huffington Post and immediately went to her hilarious, like-minded blog, Suburban Snapshots. I reached out, explained who I was several times until she pretended to remember me, and we rekindled what I can only refer to as an adversarial, she-had-no-time-for-me-and-I-was-scared-of-her relationship. And then I asked Brenna, a self-described “working mom who blogs it out because vodka has too many calories,” to write a guest post on Dad and Buried.

After almost a year, she finally obliged.

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Nobody Hates Kids More Than Parents

Nobody Hates Kids More Than Parents

Controversy recently ignited when a popular Northern California restaurant posted a sign aggressively banning unruly children and babies from their establishment.

Yesterday, on the heels of this, I shared an old post I wrote about the divide between parents and non-parents, which, if the collection of comments and emails and death threats I receive whenever I post something on The Huffington Post is any indication, seems pretty wide these days.

Whether you’ve read that old post of mine or not, you probably assume I’m outraged at the restaurant for its “no loud kids” policy, like a lot of my fellow parents. But I actually don’t have a problem with it.

Funny thing about parents: we hate kids.
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