I love my kids, I just hate parenting
You may have noticed that I occasionally post some “e-card” type images here, or on my Facebook page.
Until now, I’ve been creating my own “user cards” over on the hilarious Someecards site. But I wanted to get away from using their template, and their logo, so I decided to make my own.
Today I’m unveiling the first one, which reveals the truth about toddlers.
By now, everyone knows the “terrible twos” are a myth.
Okay, maybe not a myth, because I’m sure they suck for many parents, but for many other parents, like Yours Truly, it’s year number three that proves to be far more harrowing.
Mom and Buried and I are now halfway through this “threenage wasteland” and we can’t wait for it to end.
Which, presumably, will be when he turns four, right? Unless there’s already some clever phrase for our son to live up to for that year, like the FOUR-ror Show.
Or maybe something better. Shut up.
I’ve seen some pretty stupid articles on the internet. Like the one about Frozen having a gay agenda. Or the one about Obama being a Muslim. Or the one about Andy’s mom having once been a child. YEAH RIGHT.
But nothing is as stupid as this one. Sorry, this one. It was on HuffPo the other day (I post on there!), and it’s about how to tell if your kid was reincarnated.
As most people know, there’s no such thing as reincarnation. As most parents know, the only person their kid is a reincarnation of is Mommy or Daddy. And apparently maybe Hitler.
It’s terrible when your kid gets sick. Especially when he barely knows it.
My son is three and a half, and this winter he’s had a few tough colds. The coughing, the sore throat, the eternally running nose (although he’s had one of those since he was born, so that’s more of a curse than a health issue), all have reared their heads at one time or another, much to our dismay. Of course, being a resilient, happy-go-lucky kind of guy, Detective Munch barely seems to notice his own symptoms.
Unfortunately, his preschool does notice them. His teachers are like dogs; they can smell sickness. So he’s forced to stay home. And that is a huge hassle.
Raising kids often feels like a contact sport. Or an endurance test. Or both. It’s actually more like 50 different sports all wrapped up in one. In short, it’s like the Olympics.
Maybe it’s not cross-country skiing, and it’s definitely not a biathlon (guns don’t kill people, terrible gun laws that allow people to easily kill other people with guns kill people), but it’s certainly something of a marathon. It might even be curling, but I don’t understand curling, so we’re sticking with marathon, and maybe some ice dancing (I don’t understand that either).
I’ve never participated in the Olympic games, but I have seen them on TV. A lot. They’re always on. And after years of being a spectator, I’ve come to the conclusion that the Olympics aren’t that different from having kids.