Who Doesn’t Love a Parade

Who Doesn’t Love a Parade

My Thanksgivings don’t usually start with 5:45 wake-up calls. But my Thanksgivings also don’t usually include a visit to the most celebrated parade in the world.

And my Thanksgivings NEVER feature an appearance from KISS. Which is usually the thing I’m most thankful for.

But last Thursday I got all of those things, for better or worse, because, thanks to the good people at Macy’s and Mom and Buried’s bizarre obsession with this event, I’d secured tickets to the 88th Annual Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

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Consider the Toddler

Consider the Toddler

When we moved back to Brooklyn, our already-complicated apartment search was complicated further by Detective Munch’s upcoming entry into preschool. In New York – if you believe the hype – even the preschool your kid attends can influence his future.

We ultimately had to choose between two schools: one that had some potential drawbacks but was in a much more convenient location, and one that had a better reputation, but would be a hassle to get to. Life was so much easier when there were fewer people to worry about. Now I have to consider the toddler?

We chose the better, less convenient school. Because parenting.

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All I Want From The Parent-Teacher Conference

All I Want From The Parent-Teacher Conference

Later today, I’ll be attending my first parent-teacher conference.

As a kid, parent-teacher conference day was nerve-wracking. (“What is the teacher going to say about me? Am I going to get in trouble?”) Now that I’m the parent, it will be interesting to experience it from the other side. Or it will be when it matters. Right now, I don’t think it does.

Detective Munch is four. He’s in preschool. Unless he’s biting other children or spending all class in the corner doing science experiments, I don’t think there will be any major developments.

But there is one thing I’m dying to learn.

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Is it Right to Judge

Is it Right to Judge

I hate judgment, especially when it comes to parenting.

It’s presumptuous and self-righteous and, worst of all, it only serves to obscure – if not outright obliterate – the empathy that should be both the prevalent emotion and the primary response to seeing another parent struggling. We all live in the same huge glass house, surrounded by miniature, walking, talking, wrecking balls, and we’re all barefoot and bloodied, like John McClane.

Being given a hard time when your kid isn’t behaving is the last thing a parent needs.

It’s difficult enough being responsible for the safety and development of a brand new, slowly-developing, borderline-feral human being without someone explaining to you everything you’re doing wrong.

It’s never right to judge. So why do I want you to judge me?

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