Friday, July 30, 2004
The responsibilities of impending fatherhood are daunting, sometimes downright frightening, which lead to a myriad of questions and even more worry. It’s really just one big cycle of worry after worry. Will I be a good dad? Can we afford this? What if something goes wrong? Is the baby healthy? Will I have to go to water park?
Few things repulse me more than a water park. Actually, pretty much anything that attracts people for good old fashioned manufactured corporate fun disgusts me? But I could always avoid these with ease when I was single. Marriage certainly didn’t bring me into contact with these places, unless you count the Home Depot. But being a parent? I feel I may be doomed to episode of screaming kids, exposed bear bellies and chlorine soaked nachos. It’s a fate I’m not sure I’m ready to come to grips with yet.
But I’m going to have to because, well, kids love this shit. I know I did.
During on many trips to Cape Cod in my youthful years we would always pass this water park on our way to and from the Cape. My brother and I would always beg my parents to go there and they always said no. They give us a “maybe on the way home” and the subsequent “we’re too tired” when we headed home.
Year after to year it was the same thing until one year they finally gave in. And that must have been enough. But like time has a way of doing, I finally was able to gain some perspective. Why would any parent want to go to a water park other than to please their kid? I’m going to have to this some day.
Parenthood is definitely a weird cult. This much I’m already starting to realize. Kids love to have fun, at your expense. I guess this is what my parents always meant when they said they “sacrificed a lot for us kids.” As a parent, you have to subject yourself to the very happiest places on earth that marketing gurus drill into your kids heads. Am I ready for this?
I know it sounds stupid, but seriously, after watching family for years now, I vowed this would never be me. I always said I never wanted to have kids. That, of course, has changed, much to the chagrin of the 21-year-old version of me. But like the true PR professional I am, I’m trying to put a positive spin on this before my house becomes overrun with toys and I find myself in the same 15-year-old bathing suit with a plastic floatation device in on hand an a soggy corn dog in the other.
One of my best memories from my childhood was when my dad would get down in the dirt with my Tonka trucks and me. We would sit in the backyard and build roads and dams in the mud for hours. I remember my dad seeming like he was having the time of his life. I don’t doubt that he was. Because somehow, I think having a kid really allows you to get back in touch with your own childhood. I’m looking forward to that.
Those Tonka trucks are still in my parent’s basement and I am looking forward to dragging those out and reliving my childhood memories. If my child is anything like me, he or she will love those moments the most. That one on one time with your parent that will forever be engrained in their head. It’s obvious I need to not only live for those moments, but to utilize them to talk about the evil creatures that lurk in water parks around the world. I figure they’ll but this for at least seven year or so. By then, I should have done enough research to find the water parks that have an on-site bar.
Few things repulse me more than a water park. Actually, pretty much anything that attracts people for good old fashioned manufactured corporate fun disgusts me? But I could always avoid these with ease when I was single. Marriage certainly didn’t bring me into contact with these places, unless you count the Home Depot. But being a parent? I feel I may be doomed to episode of screaming kids, exposed bear bellies and chlorine soaked nachos. It’s a fate I’m not sure I’m ready to come to grips with yet.
But I’m going to have to because, well, kids love this shit. I know I did.
During on many trips to Cape Cod in my youthful years we would always pass this water park on our way to and from the Cape. My brother and I would always beg my parents to go there and they always said no. They give us a “maybe on the way home” and the subsequent “we’re too tired” when we headed home.
Year after to year it was the same thing until one year they finally gave in. And that must have been enough. But like time has a way of doing, I finally was able to gain some perspective. Why would any parent want to go to a water park other than to please their kid? I’m going to have to this some day.
Parenthood is definitely a weird cult. This much I’m already starting to realize. Kids love to have fun, at your expense. I guess this is what my parents always meant when they said they “sacrificed a lot for us kids.” As a parent, you have to subject yourself to the very happiest places on earth that marketing gurus drill into your kids heads. Am I ready for this?
I know it sounds stupid, but seriously, after watching family for years now, I vowed this would never be me. I always said I never wanted to have kids. That, of course, has changed, much to the chagrin of the 21-year-old version of me. But like the true PR professional I am, I’m trying to put a positive spin on this before my house becomes overrun with toys and I find myself in the same 15-year-old bathing suit with a plastic floatation device in on hand an a soggy corn dog in the other.
One of my best memories from my childhood was when my dad would get down in the dirt with my Tonka trucks and me. We would sit in the backyard and build roads and dams in the mud for hours. I remember my dad seeming like he was having the time of his life. I don’t doubt that he was. Because somehow, I think having a kid really allows you to get back in touch with your own childhood. I’m looking forward to that.
Those Tonka trucks are still in my parent’s basement and I am looking forward to dragging those out and reliving my childhood memories. If my child is anything like me, he or she will love those moments the most. That one on one time with your parent that will forever be engrained in their head. It’s obvious I need to not only live for those moments, but to utilize them to talk about the evil creatures that lurk in water parks around the world. I figure they’ll but this for at least seven year or so. By then, I should have done enough research to find the water parks that have an on-site bar.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
I don’t know about the rest of Red Sox nation, but during that last game against Seattle the other day, there was a big part of me that wanted them to blow that lead and lose. Because, truth be told, I don’t think I can take it anymore and a prolonged losing streak would probably make the rest of my summer much more enjoyable.
The pain from last season lingered like the back end of late night burrito after a night of tequila and beer. That is to say, it hurt. Sure, I tried optimism over the winter and, the Patriots winning the Super Bowl sure helped, but as soon as pitchers and catchers reported, I realized I wasn’t emotionally ready for this season to begin.
The baseball season is long, we all know this, especially as Red Sox fans. You would think, being the self-tortured souls that we are, we would know that taking six of seven games from the Yankees before Memorial Day meant jack-squat. But, no, Sox fans were all over this. I warned my friends to take heed, but still they yammered on, in every medium they could; from sports radio to the myriad of web site dedicated to discussing the team.
Which reminds, am I only the one out there that think the likes of a certain Sox player and a certain prominent owner shouldn’t be spouting opinions on these message boards? I mean, the media is one thing, but how can you possibly feel the need to explain yourself to people in an anonymous forum who probably have the Sox chat up in one browser and the latest Pam Anderson video in another? Sox fans are cynical by nature, but the lunacy perpetuated through some of these virtual discussions is manic.
But, I digress. To each his own I suppose. After all, it is the forlorn right of every Sox fan to jump on and off the bandwagon of players and managers several times a season.
I set out to avoid getting sucked into all things Sox as much as possible this year. Choosing to not watch nor attend a single game in its entirety until after July 4th, I figured I would be able to at least shield myself from some of the heartbreak.
It sort of worked.
For a couple of months there, I followed the team via box scores and the newspapers. It gave me just enough info to maintain a working knowledge of the season without driving me too far off the edge. However, what I found when I jumped back on board nearly three weeks ago is that being a Red Sox fan is like being a former addict. I had just fallen head first off the wagon.
The problem lies in this obsession with the Yankees and the “curse.” It has simply gotten too big. When a documentary about a losing season brings can be a local hit, you know you’ve got problems.
At least I do, because I do still believe and this always turns me into an emotional train wreck. I simply care too much and it starting to take its total. And that is why I sat there the other night wanting them to blow it.
This team doesn’t have the magic of last year and we are all in denial if we think they are going to turn it around.
They’re not.
But the problem is, I can’t let them go, it’s against every fiber of my Red Sox being. It’s like being in a bad relationship, except instead of them cheating on me, they tease me with losses and then come running back to me with a winning streak. I have no backbone at all, choosing to always let them back into bed with me. I’ll never dump them on my own. I need them to just run away from me and never come back. So please, my dear Red Sox maiden, just start losing and never stop because if you can fall out of contention by mid-August, it might be just enough time for me to get up the will-power to take you back next fall.
The pain from last season lingered like the back end of late night burrito after a night of tequila and beer. That is to say, it hurt. Sure, I tried optimism over the winter and, the Patriots winning the Super Bowl sure helped, but as soon as pitchers and catchers reported, I realized I wasn’t emotionally ready for this season to begin.
The baseball season is long, we all know this, especially as Red Sox fans. You would think, being the self-tortured souls that we are, we would know that taking six of seven games from the Yankees before Memorial Day meant jack-squat. But, no, Sox fans were all over this. I warned my friends to take heed, but still they yammered on, in every medium they could; from sports radio to the myriad of web site dedicated to discussing the team.
Which reminds, am I only the one out there that think the likes of a certain Sox player and a certain prominent owner shouldn’t be spouting opinions on these message boards? I mean, the media is one thing, but how can you possibly feel the need to explain yourself to people in an anonymous forum who probably have the Sox chat up in one browser and the latest Pam Anderson video in another? Sox fans are cynical by nature, but the lunacy perpetuated through some of these virtual discussions is manic.
But, I digress. To each his own I suppose. After all, it is the forlorn right of every Sox fan to jump on and off the bandwagon of players and managers several times a season.
I set out to avoid getting sucked into all things Sox as much as possible this year. Choosing to not watch nor attend a single game in its entirety until after July 4th, I figured I would be able to at least shield myself from some of the heartbreak.
It sort of worked.
For a couple of months there, I followed the team via box scores and the newspapers. It gave me just enough info to maintain a working knowledge of the season without driving me too far off the edge. However, what I found when I jumped back on board nearly three weeks ago is that being a Red Sox fan is like being a former addict. I had just fallen head first off the wagon.
The problem lies in this obsession with the Yankees and the “curse.” It has simply gotten too big. When a documentary about a losing season brings can be a local hit, you know you’ve got problems.
At least I do, because I do still believe and this always turns me into an emotional train wreck. I simply care too much and it starting to take its total. And that is why I sat there the other night wanting them to blow it.
This team doesn’t have the magic of last year and we are all in denial if we think they are going to turn it around.
They’re not.
But the problem is, I can’t let them go, it’s against every fiber of my Red Sox being. It’s like being in a bad relationship, except instead of them cheating on me, they tease me with losses and then come running back to me with a winning streak. I have no backbone at all, choosing to always let them back into bed with me. I’ll never dump them on my own. I need them to just run away from me and never come back. So please, my dear Red Sox maiden, just start losing and never stop because if you can fall out of contention by mid-August, it might be just enough time for me to get up the will-power to take you back next fall.
