I love my kids, I just hate parenting
If I could, I’d eat nothing but snacks.
Sure, I’d miss cheeseburgers and steak and Al Di La and sushi and all that, but give me a bag of chips – or even some raw broccoli – and a jar of french onion dip and I’m set for life.
This predilection for constant nibbling in between meals makes my role as a parent difficult. Because I am forced to stop my kids from doing the same. (Especially when it’s my snacks they’re stealing!)
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.
If you’ve read this blog before, you’re probably no stranger to my anxiety as a parent. If you are a parent, you’re probably no stranger to it either. Parenting makes paranoids out of all of us.
In the past I’ve written about the general stresses of the gig, and I’ve occasionally focused on my fear over my own shortcomings, and how they might affect my kids. lately, I’ve been less concerned about how my parenting might eventually ruin my children, and more worried that it already has.
Have I already ruined my kids?
Children are expensive.
And not just like, “Wow, I didn’t expect it to cost that much!” expensive, more like, “Wow, the cost of this item is really cramping my style, I should probably return it!” expensive, and maybe even “I bet if I sold this I’d make a fortune!” expensive.
They’re the kind of expensive that makes you question your life choices. Parents need some guilt-free spending to offset our crushed dreams.