I wrote the post I’ve resurrected below one year ago.
It’s a charming little trifle about my son’s increasingly bad behavior. Little did I know that what I thought, last May, was the onset of the terrible twos – though I even admit in the post that I might be a tad premature in that assessment – was nothing but a tiny preview of the hell to come, and of the abuse Mom and Buried and I were yet to face.
Now, a year later and a good three months into the real terrible deal, this post would probably make me laugh if I weren’t usually already crying.
I thought things were bad when I wrote this week’s Zombie Post, and today things are infinitely worse. And there’s no end in sight. Parenting FTW!
Original Post – Parent Abuse: Parenting’s Dirty Little Secret
There’s something funny about “resurrecting” a post about raising my son to believe in God. Amirite?
But with all this ridiculous Pope stuff in the news, I thought it made sense to revisit this old post, written only a few months after my kid was born. It’s about the conflict between my own disdain for religion and the feeling that some belief in one might be good for my son. At least until he figures things out for himself.
Anyway, Detective Munch is now halfway through his third year of life and he still hasn’t been baptized – much to my parents’ chagrin – so maybe this old post about that possibility is moot. Then again, St. Augustine didn’t become Christian until he was 32, so my kid still has time, provided Jesus or Xenu or Jobe from The Lawnmower Man doesn’t come back and smite us all before then.
Read this post while you wait, maybe you disagree?
Original Post: I’m Not Religious But My Baby Son Is
About a year ago, I found myself doing some light googling to investigate whether it was possible for my son to be having nightmares at such a young age. It turns out it was. So I wrote a post about the phenomenon (resurrected below), in which I speculated about what a year-and-a-half old baby could possibly be scared of. Obviously, we couldn’t get any info out of him, so those guesses were about as reliable as those heart-warming stories about Manti Te’o’s girlfriend.
Flash-forward to a year later. My son can now speak in actual sentences. Most of them are things like “don’t do that” and “that’s mine!” and “I don’t like chicken!”, and his understanding of language still outpaces his ability to articulate his thoughts, but if he starts dreaming again, I can at least ask him about it and see what happens. Except he may be beating me to it. Because lately, as I’ve been putting him down to bed, he’s been repeating the same phrase: The Weatherman.
I’m not actually sure that he’s been having nightmares – sometimes I’m convinced he wakes himself up just to fuck with us – but it’s definitely giving me the creeps. As I joked on Twitter: I’ve may have trusted meteorologists, but I’ve certainly never had a reason to fear them. Until now.
Maybe my son is just struggling to adjust to North Carolina’s climate and the fact that it’s sometimes 75 degrees in the middle of January. Maybe he’s quoting Bob Dylan lyrics. Or maybe he is saying something else besides “weatherman” and I just can’t understand him.
Or maybe Al Roker haunts his dreams.
Original Post: The Dream Police
My son turned two in September, forever removing the need to specify how many months old he is. Now that he’s two, he’s just two. Maybe soon he’ll be “two-and-a-half”, maybe eventually “almost three.’ But mostly just two.
At such a young age, measuring by months is necessary, at least when talking to other parents. When kids are super young, a few months might as well be a few light years. So I did it all the time, and I wasn’t ashamed of doing it.
I was ashamed of doing it OUT LOUD, to other people. So I took myself to task for it about a year ago, and you can read about it below. Because yes, it’s important for you to keep track of your kid’s development and milestones, but not for anyone else. And when someone asks you, politely, how old your kid is, and you break it down? Ugh.
Original post: Don’t Be a D-Bag: The Art of Rounding Off
I’ve been publishing this blog for more than two years now. My son is approaching his second birthday (I started the blog a few months before his due date), and it’s impossible to overstate how much my life has changed since he was born.
The good news is that this blog provides a great way for me to look back and see how much things have changed, so I have something to focus on when I break down into tears. In order to remind myself of just how ignorant I was, and will continue to be (god knows when I look back at yesterday’s post in two years, I’ll shake my head just as vigorously), I thought it might make sense to occasionally revisit some of my older posts. I’ll call them Zombie posts, since they’ve crawled back up from the Buried archives. HILARIOUS!
Here’s the first outing, which was written almost exactly two years ago and is pretty timely, seeing as my last few posts have been about how annoying my kid is. Check it out:
What If I Hate My Son?