No one told me!

I swear, kids should come with more detailed instructions.

I got out of work early today and met my friend at a park near her house (her town's facilities are so much nicer than the old-tennis-ball-tied-to-a-pole plaything in my town). There were little swings there—the kind with the holes for the legs—and I thought, "Hooray, Junior can swing!"

Then I thought, "Shit. Is Junior too little to swing? He’s almost a year but what if someone sees me putting my baby in the swing and calls DCF because the swings are meant for toddlers and here I am sticking my helpless child in the Jaws of Death?"

My friend, also being a first-time parent (but to a five-month-old), didn't know about swinging etiquette either. We actually looked on the bottom of the swing for age guidelines but—shocking—there were none.

Finally, we agreed that it was probably fine (the whole exchange took about 15 minutes; I've never felt so sketchy standing in front of a swing in my life).

So I took a deep breath and stuck Junior in the swing. And gave him a feeble push. And yes, I waited for someone to shout, "Are you freakin crazy putting a baby in that swing? You shouldn’t be a parent!"

Then another mother came along. She casually plopped her baby in a swing and then turned her attention to her toddler, who was eating the sand next to the swing set.

“Christ, Billy. No!”

She looked at me and my friend. What a pair we were: my friend clutching her baby, who was covered from head to toe so as to avoid any exposure to the sun—and sweating his miniscule nuts off—and me, hovering over Junior as he waited for the slightest breeze to add some excitement to his swinging (hell, I didn’t know how high I should push him! What if he got a stomach ache from swinging too high?)

She smiled. I had to ask.

“Um, when can you put babies in swings?”

“Whenever you want. I mean, as long as they can hold their heads up.”

I did the math. Poor Junior could have been swinging his heart out from age six months! All that missed swinging!

My friend shrugged her shoulders.

“Your kid’s fine,” she told me. Then she looked at me like I was a nutcase.

Freakish or not, I learned a valuable lesson today. And I do think someone should put together some kind of manual. If they don’t, Junior may be 55 before he tries the monkey bars.

Leave me alone

I'm in a bad mood today and, crazily enough, it has nothing to do with the male species and everything to do with the female: the ones who are supposed to be the nurturers, the healers, the nicey-nicers.

Nope.

To be more specific, I'm pointing my finger at the women in their forties and fifties who stayed home with their kids and are now back in the workforce a mere 20 years later for the sole reason of driving me insane with their f*&^ing questions.

“How aaaaaaaare you?”

“How is the baaaaaaaaaaaby?”

“Who is watching him?” (Instead of explaining the work-from-home dad/babysitter/grandma arrangement, I am going to start saying, “I’m not sure” and shrug my shoulders).

Look, my issue is not with the questions themselves. I remind myself that they come from a place of concern. It’s the way they’re posed—it reminds me of those bottomfeeder reporters on the news who ask a murdered victim’s family how they feel:

“How does it feel to see your slain brother lying on the sidewalk, knowing that the killer is probably sitting at Friendly’s right now eating a Jubilee ice cream roll while you and your family struggle to pick up the pieces?”

The absolute worst are the women who ask you the details of your workweek under the pretense of empathizing. Cut the shit. You don’t give a shit about my workweek. You just want to hear the dirty details so you can pat me on the shoulder and say, “I could never do what you do”—like I’m some kind of vigilant out there fighting for the greater good while you sit on your ass eating S’Mores and Spam, cuddling the wee ones by the fire.

I’m so brave. So tough.

Well screw you.

Who said having a child meant surrendering your entire self? Forgive me for liking adult interaction. For deriving a sense of purpose from professional accomplishments.

What happened to “Live and let live?” Or “Give me liberty or give me death?” (that was Patrick Henry and no, I’m not a history buff, I’m trying to lighten the mood—is it a little, um, hot in here?).

Can’t we all just hold hands and sing Koombaya?

More importantly, can’t we all just stop asking each other how we are?