What I Want My Kids to Know About Selfies

This blog has nothing to do with my children. But I'm trying to shoe-horn them in here because this is still technically a parenting blog.

Anyway, this is what I want my kids (and pretty much everyone on the planet) to know about selfies.


Just fucking stop. It's enough. You are surrounded by able-bodied humans who can help. Introduce yourself to them and learn the power of socialization.

Sorry, but I get very JJ Watt about selfies. For starters, they are absurdly stupid. I have never once looked at one and thought, "Awwww, Cute selfie!" I tend to think, "Well, there's someone with awkwardly short arms who needs a friend." People who routinely take pictures of themselves are usually the same people who don't wipe the pee off the toilet seat. There's a connection there somewhere.

The problem I have with this trend is two-fold.

For one, it's just flat out ego-maniacal. It says to the world, "I need to take a picture of myself, and I simply can't be bothered waiting for a friend to take it for me." Nobody needs a daily reminder of your face. Unless you're growing the world's longest beard. That's the one exception. Or potentially if you're obscenely attractive. You're probably not. Don't worry, neither am I. 

But also, this speaks to a much larger problem in our culture. We're becoming so consumed with social media, we've forgotten entirely how to be social. When I see two dolts posing in front of an outstretched arm, I walk up to them and ask if they'd like help. In fact, i insist on it. Because a picture is an opportunity to do more than plaster your image on Instagram. It's an excuse to meet the person standing next to you. Unfortunately, it's also an opportunity to prove you're a self-centered ignoramus. 


The choice is ours.

And because I know at least one of you will bring this up...there was a dark day in my history when even I succumbed to the pressure...but I was a much younger, sillier man back then...

The next time you're thinking of taking one yourself, remember how fucking ridiculous I look in this picture from 2011.


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The Moment You Realize You're About to Be a Parent...Again

Apparently, maintaining active blogs for both Parents Magazine and Huffington Post isn't enough responsibility for me. So, I've decided to resurrect my original parent blog, mostly for short-form content I either have very little material for, or don't think is good enough for Parents Mag or HuffPo. I hope you're ready for some brief mediocrity!

Earlier this year, my wife and I found out we were expecting our third child. Well, she found out first. Women always do. Then they pick the perfect, most sentimental way to scare the ever-loving shit out of you. That same week, we found out that my cousin, Christina was expecting her first child. Two pregnant ladies! Their due dates were within a day of each other. It was pretty adorable. See below.

 I know you're already envisioning that scene in Father of the Bride Part 2 where Steve Martin is racing between the two delivery rooms. Not that that would happen here, because it'd be really strange and creepy if I was present for the birthing of my cousin's baby. But still, it's a convenient reference. It wasn't meant to be, though. Christina's water broke on December 26th, nearly two months early. There was obvious concern, but the baby is doing fine. I know because we visited him on New Year's Day.

Baby Daniel lay there in that little clear plastic purgatory they put preemies in. His turkey-like legs refusing to go straight, his eyes puffy and practically unpeelable. He was perfect, and the joy in the room was palpable, for the newly branded mom and dad. That's when it hit me. I gazed over at Sonia's belly and realized, "There is a baby of exactly the size of baby Daniel in there. And she's currently plotting the demise of my social life and credit score."

I feel like I go through this mental exercise whenever Sonia is pregnant. But a new baby is a new baby. They keep you up at night, they spit on you. They are like villainous frat brothers. They have no relent. No remorse. So I started asking myself if I had gas in the tank. Could I go back to the 3 a.m. feedings and making sure she doesn't suffocate in her own blanket? Could we still manage to get out every once in a while to catch a movie or just to speak to one another without interruption? I mean, probably not. We'll both likely need to be committed. It's inevitable. But still..after knowing that any order that existed in our home is likely on its last legs...after knowing that my blood pressure is likely going to shoot up higher than a nervous bomb tester...I still want to love this baby with everything I have. And I will. And if I'm lucky, when the time comes, she'll feed me and wipe my butt when I need it, too,

I can do this.

I probably can't do this.

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