"A" is for Art: I love my children, but they're young enough that the buildings they draw look like they have balls, the people all look like they have Leprosy, and the pictures generally look like what you'd imagine if a crayon could develop Tourette Syndrome. And no, I don't say these things to my children. I tell them that the pictures look beautiful and amazing, because they really do illustrate an incredible command of fine motor skills for their age. But in a dark place in the back of my mind I'm thinking, "That picture looks like you drew what a love child between Pinhead from
Hellraiser and a box of Fruit Loops would look like."
"B" is for Baby Wipes: Not all baby wipes are created equal. Some
baby wipes are thick and a bit rugged, and can actually be used to
scrape shit off a child's butt with minimal collateral damage. Other
baby wipes are paper thin and basically disintegrate when
they come in contact with feces. With those, you always end up going
through an entire pack of wipes, and you basically end up cupping your
hand and using it as a trowel to get the job done. Baby wipes are one of those things where spending the extra dollar may be in your best interest.
"C" is for Circle Time: Circle time is where a person who doesn't
have
children asks a group of children under the age of 3 to sit down
and hold still in a room full of toys or other temptations where all they want to do is run and play.
My experience with this was in gymnastics, where the minute that class started, my child morphed into a honey badger
that you can only hope to contain. The lady running the class expected everyone to hold still and stretch for 15 minutes, and gave you the shifty eyes if you couldn't reign your kid in. Half the parents in the class looked like they were fighting the urge to throat punch her. And the hell with Cross Fit. If you want a real workout, try holding down a toddler for an hour
in that environment.
"D" is for Divorce: You used to look at divorced people and
wonder what was wrong with them. Now, after a rough day of
fighting with your wife, you occasionally look at divorced people and wonder how much they paid
and what kind of deal they got. My wife also likes to occasionally poke
at me and say things like, "My next husband will be better at (insert
whatever I failed at)." After years of hearing these things, I've
concluded that any guy who is a Grade A house cleaner, world-class chef
and amazing listener with farts that smell like a bonfire, the ability
to read minds and the body of Hugh Jackman who makes about a million
dollars a year and is hung like a racehorse, if he exists, is the result
of genetic engineering. Hell, if she found him and told me she wanted
me to leave me for him, I'd completely understand.
