I received an email this morning from SayYesToPixieStix@PantsOptional.org containing a transcript of my three year old son, Arlo, interviewing The Honest Toddler. As you might imagine, it gets pretty deep. I’ve copied it here, unedited.
—BEGIN TRANSCRIPT—
Arlo: Any idea why my mom can’t make a sandwich while driving?
The Honest Toddler (HT): Maybe she didn’t hear you- ask again (louder). Don’t rule out that she dislikes you intensely and wants to see you suffer.
Arlo: How many books do they read to you at night? Continue…
Most of the comments I get on my blog and writing on other sites are very nice and I love them. But a very small percentage are just impossibly ridiculous and annoying. I think if we all followed these rules, everyone would be better off and I could cut my Prozac dose in half.
1. Don’t Brag
It’s cool that you taught your non hearing impaired kid sign language (just for kicks), but please, for the love of Christ, Muhammed, and any Moon Diety I’ve forgotten, keep it to yourself. Continue…
During my high school years, Sunday evenings triggered a festering pit of dread in my gut. My father would turn on 60 Minutes only to find that the “goddamn football game” wasn’t over yet. It was as predictable as the fact that the next morning would bring a new week of school, requiring me to wake up too early, only to fall asleep in geometry class, and awaken 40 minutes later with my cheek resting next to a shimmering pool of desk drool. Continue…
I have an adult sense of humor. I’m sarcastic, ironic and overly specific. I use a lot of similes and I can be a dick sometimes. Each of these specialties is completely lost on my children. They respond to sarcasm like a moose trying to figure out if a Skittle is food: a little curiosity and fear, dusted with suspicion and frustration.
Twelve minutes into a 15 minute car ride, my five year old asked (for the eighth time), how much longer it was going to take to get to the zoo. Continue…
Here’s something I learned: I can only ask, “Do you need a Kleenex?” 17 times within a four hour period before I give up. Arlo inherited a clean nose obsession from me. If I feel anything clinging or flapping around in there like a sad little prisoner, I can do nothing else until I free it. Usually I blow it into a Kleenex, but sometimes I pick my nose because I’m a grown-ass man who can do whatever he wants while sitting at a red light or standing in line at the pharmacy. Continue…
