Hello there a little while back some of the commentist party got in to a discussion about their offspring. I was a little down about losing my freedom and becoming a dad but that picked me right up. It was only 5 or 6 stories of what they or their parents had to deal with and I thought it was gold. I am becoming a father in the next month and am looking forward to it but am still terrified nonetheless.
Now that Fozz has had himself snipped, and as the rest of us cringe in pain I feel this is a great time to re-live funny stories to pass a March afternoon.
There was a couple imprints on my life that my asshole father left on me and those are do not hit a woman, be on time, and there are consequences to all of your actions. He once drove me to the RCMP office one evening when I had been caught shoplifting and then put me in the cell for the night, I was 11. In saying that, I never stole again.
If you would be so kind as to begin this discussion again I believe it would be incredibly informative and after those few posts a few weeks back it will be hilarious. Also acceptable are stories of crazy sports parents as I never tire of those. EVER.
The best advice is that everyone else’s advice is the worst. Don’ hit ’em, shake ’em, fuck ’em, or belittle ’em. You’re a white Canadian. Your kids will be perfectly fine, if not overly cold.
I missed this post. Coming to me for advice on kids shows you have faith in mankind.
Best piece of advice I got on raising kids came from my father’s partner: “Listen to every person’s advice on raising children. Smile and say ‘thank you.’ Then go and do it the way YOU think you should. You’ll be right 90% of the time, the rest is called ‘learning.'”
We all think raising kids is a skill, but in reality it comes naturally. It’s instinctive. You will do great as a father.
And whatever you do, when you come home from work, leave it at the doorstep. Today, it’s impossible to accomplish this 100%, but try your best.
Of course, you can always shoot me an email if you want any more of my ‘advice.’ If I can find my pants and crawl out from under my fortress of empty bourble bottles, I’ll be glad to answer them.
Sitting at home. 3 weeks to go. Drinking Abelour cask strength, listening to Blind Melon. People dont get our community, but I am thankful for it.
Make sure to get to the events that are important to the kid.
And don’t worry, you’ll know which ones are.
If you have to work during a Wednesday evening Baseball game, they won’t really care. They will understand that Mom and Dad have to pay for XBOX1080. Make sure you’re there for a Sat or Sunday game. If they make a little league playoff, get your ass there, unless you’re on business trip and totally impossible.
If kid is in band or theater go for every new show, on opening night if it has a few days to run.
Oh, and the kid will hate you when it’s a teenager. Don’t worry you’ll hate the kid too, at least sometimes.
And like Wakezilla said below, some of my best memories are of little things. Random spur of the moment events. Unannounced trips for mini-golf on the way home from Grandma’s house, that type of thing.
You should never, ever, ever, ever, ever shake your infant, no matter how much they won’t shut up at 3:48 am. But every single one of us has WANTED to shake ’em. That’s perfectly normal and don’t feel bad about those moments of incredible frustration.
But seriously, don’t actually shake them.
You haven’t really lived until your father has said he’s disappointed in you. And that your career choice, despite being stable and profitable, did not follow in his footsteps, and thus is another disappointment to him.
And he wondered why I broke contact 15 years ago…
In short, don’t do this.
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Best advice I read shortly before becoming a father was this about a month or so before I became a father almost 8 months ago. It honestly put things into perspective. This is something you can show to, and eventually remind your wife of when shit gets real tough.
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I learned early on that the best thing a person can do is to just show up. Kids are tough and don’t need a lot of things. But you make their world by just being there for them.
When my brother inlaw was going through a nasty divorce and he and his wife wanted nothing to do with their kids, I stepped in and helped my nephews grieve. I printed out a bunch of superhero coloring paper and I bought them some classic superhero stories.
We sat there and colored and read comics for hours. I gave them hugs when they broke down crying. One of my nephews, now 20, is going to Vancouver Film School and won some script competition that now sees his script being shown to people in the industry. He told me about a year ago that that one day, 11 years ago, was what propelled him to where he is now.
My dad told me three things that have stuck with me until this day.
1. I’m left-handed. Wanted to play baseball as a kid, but we were always on vacation for the entire summer, away from home, so it never much made sense. All the same, he said to me (and this ended up as my graduation quote in my high school yearbook): “Son, if you can throw a baseball 90 miles an hour, you can quit school. If you can throw it 95, I can quit my job.” Unfortunately, he’s still working to this day.
2. Seeing that music was my path in life, he then modified the above saying to be “Son, if you write one hit song, you won’t ever have to work again. If you write two, I won’t ever have to work again.” He’s still waiting, unfortunately. (I blame Spotify’s shitty royalty rates, plus the fact nobody can crack the top 40 as a jazz musician anymore. Dicks.)
3. It took a little while initially to convince him to let me study music in college. Neither of my parents had any musical experience at all in their youth, and so my interest/aptitude for it caught them somewhat by surprise. They were still supportive in my teenage years – private lessons, buying instruments, attending all my shows, etc. – and while mom was all for it, it took him time to come around, as he wasn’t sure I could make a proper living out of it (which is understandable, really.) Afterwards, after some long chats with my mother and I (and after explaining that I very much wanted teaching to be the primary focus of my musical career), he realized that we were right all along. Afterwards, he’s been such a great support. He’s realized that things changed, and now tells me, “son, it’s so important to study what you love; if you’re seriously committed to it, you’re going to figure out a way to make things work one way or another.”
“Now go get me another beer and start writing that hit song, dammit.”
When I was young my family would spend a good chunk of the summer at our lake cottage in New Hampshire. My dad used to spend God only knows how much time throwing a tennis ball for me and my brother to (try to) catch while leaping off the float. I thought it must be annoying to spend so much time serving it up like that, but over the summer I went back out there and filled the same role for a while and I can see why he never complained. It’s about as much fun to throw as it is to catch.
I have another.
Both of my daughters play musical instruments. Eldest right was in the LA honors band and marched in the Rose Parade on New Year’s day. They were the first entrant of the parade and she walked right in front of the camera. Fun aside, she’s not the most gifted singer which is why we had her play an instrument. Her mom told her one day after she was singing, “You know you really should sing tenor.” As Eldest right left the room she said to me “Ten or 12 miles down the road from here.” I laughed
Youngest right has serious talent. She started on clarinet in middle school then they switched her to trumpet in high school which she picked up easily. In her sophomore year, the french horn player graduated so they moved her to french horn. In her Junior year she was selected for the San Diego honors orchestra and they played a concert at Copely Symphony Hall.
In her senior year she was again selected to the honors orchestra and was first fucking chair french horn. She played a solo.
Now I’m in tears again.
That was fucking awesome.
If your wife is breastfeeding and eats spinach, the baby’s poop will come out JET BLACK. Relax. The child is fine.
Some people may need a little help as to when to stop:
10. Child can now open your blouse by himself.
9. The kid starts burping up silicone.
8. Child has developed a bad habit of flicking his tongue.
7. The little one keeps slipping dollar bills in your belt.
6. Child demands that you express for his cafe latte.
5. Your birth control pills interfere with his acne medicine.
4. After each session, you both have a smoke.
3. Child invites his friends over for dinner.
2. You feel an uncontrollable urge to hear”Dueling Banjos.”
1. Beard abrasions on boobs.
That is almost as terrifying as those mornings when I forget I had eaten beets the night before.
I’ll go with Indian food.
Just remind yourself how many crackheads have spawn lying around, and how easily better you’ll do just by the default setting of giving a damn! Which is most of it really, giving a damn, listening to your inner (non-evil) voice, and to the kids themselves. And patience. Lots of that fucking shit. But don’t stop having fun, being an individual, or let anyone make you feel guilty for doing so. People like that are smothering AND setting a bad example for their kids, teaching them to be manipulative leech-types.
YEA! More Trump voters.
When you become a parent you are mostly just overwhelmed and scared shitless to appreciate the moment but it’s incredibly powerful stuff to watch them grow and succeed.
As the resident granddad it may be even more powerful to see your kids have kids of their own. It’s like a “level up” in life.
When you see that they’ve succeeded and now are starting families of their own is incredible.
Still makes as old man teary eyed thinking about it.
Don’t make your kids helpless through life or make good things seem like punishment. My parents were trying but they fucked it up badly in a lot of ways. But those are the biggies.
When I was 7. There was this boy who kept trying to kiss me for weeks on end. It was driving me crazy. I’d run away tell him no. Eventually, my parents told me, “tell him no one more time, and then say if he does it again you’re going to punch him.” Then my mother, bless her heart, asked if I knew how to make a fist. I made one the proper way. She said no, and then proceeded to tuck her thumb beneath her other fingers. My Dad looked at her and said that isn’t how you make a fist, now leave us for a couple of minutes.
He told me never tuck the thumb, so you can’t break it, Also, reasonably advanced for the time, never hit someone or be mean or anything else because they like boys, or try to kiss you or something like that. Just tell them no. If they don’t listen, then you can hit them, with a warning that they just got their last chance.
Haven’t had to throw a punch at someone since then, but I never broke anything while punching from inside my locker.
Hey!
As an LPO in the navy, I lost track of the shear number of kids I had to sit down and have the sex talk with or explain how a fucking credit card works.
The military taught me that a high school diploma means every thing from functional illiteracy, to college level course work…and an assload of parents refuse to allow their kids to have any form of sex education for some fucking reason.
Youngest right was about 3 years old when she gave me the best advice ever. My ex and I managed an apartment complex and I had spent the day cleaning the pool and the pool area. When the pool was clean I took both of my daughters for a swim.
After a lovely day of swimming and sun I fired up the grill to cook some dinner.
Youngest right looks me directly in the eye and says “Daddy, don’t go swimming in the barbecue.”
I have followed her advice to this day.
When I was in 2nd or 3rd grade, I had been dragged to the principal’s office for getting into a fight with another kid. For some reason, my Dad was picking me up that day, which was unusual. I was sitting in the office with the two of them, very insistent that I did not start anything, but I don’t remember the actual events of the altercation. The conversation my Dad had with the principal however, is burned into my brain.
“Why is he being punished? He says he didn’t start it.”
“Because he retaliated and hit someone.”
“Let me get this straight: My son tried to avoid fighting, defended himself from the boy that attacked him, and is in the same amount of trouble as him?”
“Yes. We think that people that attack back are just as much at fault.”
“So you teach kids to just stand there and get hit in the face until someone comes along and breaks it up?”
“He could have run away or…”
“No. I am not raising him to roll over every time someone tries to bully him around, and that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Well excuse me, Mr. Commander, but the Board set this policy and I think you are making a mistake teaching him this.”
“When I want to the Board to raise my son, I’ll turn over legal custody of him to them. Come on, Lil’ Commander, we’re going.”
I don’t remember my Dad having stood up for me like that before, or just completely shutting down someone with authority when they were full of shit. And guess what, I never actually got punished by the school, so there!
My dad had cataracts when I was a very young entropy, and I remember they did two things to him: screwed up his vision and made his eyes look like demon eyes. When he pulled you up close to scare you, it fucking worked. One year, we got a serious snowfall, around three feet, and dear old dad decided that a fun way to spend the day in the newly fallen snow was to throw me, his favorite son, off the porch out into the snow as far as he could. I was about 7 or 8, so it’s not like he threw an infant.
Anyway. Dear old dad hoists up entropy, and flings me out into the wild blue yonder, and I land in the snow, sinking so far only my gloved left hand is visible. I thought this was great fun until I hear panicked shouting from my father, who is saying, “I can’t see you! WHERE DID YOU GO?! OH FUCK YOUR MOTHER IS GOING TO KILL ME!!”
After a few minutes thrashing around the snow, he finally comes close enough to make out my frantically waving hand and pulls me from the snow like John Goodman lifted Billy Forsythe from the tunnel in Raising Arizona.
My mom pretty much insisted he get those cataracts fixed after that… but oddly, never told him to stop throwing me in the snow.