I love my kids, I just hate parenting
Every once in a while, particularly during the back-to-school season, we see a flurry of blog posts and articles about allergies.
The posts typically concern one of two things, depending on the proclivities of the author:
1) Please don’t bring [this thing that my child is deathly allergic to] to school, I’m begging you! or;
2) Whatever, I don’t care if your kid dies.
My son has a pretty severe tree nut allergy. Guess which category this post falls into?
Today is my wedding anniversary.
This is a big year for Mom and Buried and me. Not necessarily because the eighth anniversary is a milestone, or that our eleventh year together is a milestone. No, it’s a big year because after surviving the newborn/baby/toddler gauntlet, we are about to re-enter the arena.
Something tells me that, come January, when we’re officially “married with children,” we’ll need to be more united than ever.
Every parent craves, nay, every parent requires some time away from the kids.
Mom and Buried and I just had some, when we went away on a babymoon for a few days over the weekend.
Unfortunately, when you have kids, being away from them can be a bit of a mixed bag.
You know the made-up word “babymoon”?
I don’t like it. I don’t use it. I wish it didn’t exist.
By the way, this weekend, Mom and Buried and I are going on a babymoon.
Despite all my whining, I love my son. He’s a pain, but he’s my pain.
It’s other people’s sons – and daughters – that are the problem.