I love my kids, I just hate parenting
I’ve been a parent for just about three years (though I haven’t felt like one for that long). I repeatedly admit my total lack of parenting know-how, partially because there is no one right way to parent, partially because I have no idea what I’m doing.
And yet people keep asking me what to do.
Not on my advice page, unfortunately, but in real life. Don’t they know I’m faking it?
Children are mirrors.
When I concentrate really hard, I do this thing with my face where my features get scrunched up all tight. My wife blames this expression for my increasing wrinkles and constantly attempts to stop me from doing it (despite the fact that I can still pass for 18!) I see her point, and I’d love to stop creating crow’s feet. But it’s impossible; it’s genetic.
I’ve seen my father make the same face, for the same reasons, and now I’m waiting to see it on Detective Munch’s chubby little visage. He already looks a lot like me, and it’s so gratifying to see him take on some of my characteristics that I’m okay with adding the wrinkle-maker to that collection.
Unfortunately, it has yet to happen. But I have seen him reflect back aspects of myself that are not quite as amusing.
There’s an art to putting things off.
When you are trying to avoid doing something you don’t want to do, you find other ways to fill your time. Hopefully other, better ways.
For example, my wife often says “I have a headache.” Not only can I neither confirm nor deny the presence of an ache in her head, making it the perfect excuse, she gets to go to sleep. And when you have a toddler, nothing is better than sleep.
When you are a toddler and you are trying to put off doing something you don’t want to do, you are in a pickle. Because not only do you have just about zero independence, thus limiting your ability to find alternative uses for your time, you’re also stupid.
When I lived in Boston and NYC, this weekend’s St. Paddy’s celebration was a big deal. But now, I live in the south – I’m not sure they’ve even heard of the Irish – AND I have a two-year-old. Day-drinking my way through St. Patrick’s Day is a lot harder with a toddler.
Even one who has got some Irish in him. (And has been there!)