Not to toot my own horn, but I am a fantastic parent. Firm but adaptable, reassuring but not smothering, authoritative but not authoritarian. In fact, if I don't receive a Father of the Year award or Best Dad in the World mug in the next decade, I will be surprised. The only glitch is that I don't have any kids.
This is but a minor point. Just like TV sports analysts dont have to be athletes and food critics dont have to be chefs, there is no reason I shouldn't be an expert on parenting. My thinking on the matter is clear and profound, and the reason is that unlike every parent I know, I sleep a full seven to eight hours every night. My rested and alert state allows me to ponder such things as I sit leisurely at the breakfast table perusing Craigslist ads for vintage Danish furniture I probably won't buy or hunker down at a coffee shop, stroller — and Baby Bjorn-free, without the slightest hint of throw-up or breast milk caked to my jeans.
Of course, becoming a self-taught parenting expert can be a lonely pursuit, especially since I see less and less of my friends now that they've become parents. Apparently it's an extremely time consuming task. I've also noticed that my parent friends like to spend time with other parents rather than hang with The Kissinger and his old lady and discuss why Omar was the coolest character on The Wire. Actually, no one has ever referred to me and my girlfriend as The Kissinger and his old lady. But Omar was pretty cool, though.
While I might not spend as many precious moments with my child-strapped friends as I'd like, Â鶹´«Ã½Ó³»is teaming with new parents. In fact, half of my co-workers are parents, and they've regaled me with more stories of diarrhea and soiled clothing than people I know who've backpacked through India.
So it is with a great deal of expertise that I can confidently offer my top three rules of parenting.
1. Give your kid a decent but unspectacular name. Fin, Holden, Marjoram or anything else gardening-related might look good on paper or express your short-lived whimsical streak when you had time to read books without pictures, but precious names breed precious children. The opposite is also true. I've never met a Rodney who wasn't a juvenile delinquent or well acquainted with the Young Offenders Act.
2. Don't be afraid to lock 'em down. Admittedly, the sight of a toddler attached to his mother or father via a leash fills me with sadness, but I have no problem with strollers, playpens or gates. A few years ago, we were having dinner in my brother and sister-in-laws backyard while my two-year-old nephew Oliver (acceptable name, by the way) ran around naked with his creepy uncircumcised penis flapping about and making me lose my appetite. (Don't get me started on the aesthetic benefits of circumcision). At one point, I asked my brother if he had a playpen to put Oliver in while we ate dinner on the lawn. "Why don't I just put him in a cage?" my brother replied, incensed that I'd suggest imprisoning his freedom-loving son in some Fischer-Price gulag. "Whatever," I mumbled between bites of barbecued steak, and within seconds he did a face plant into the porch stairs and started crying until both his parents tended to his uncoordinated needs. "Wouldn't have happened if you had a playpen," I said under my breath.
3. Keep your kids off the answering machine. Simply put, if little Juniper or Boo Radley isn't old enough to receive phone calls, let alone conduct conversations beyond "Kitty go poo," there is no need to mention them on the outgoing answering machine message. No one is going to leave them a message. This goes doubly for letting them talk on the answering machine, no matter how cute you think it sounds. And do I need to explain all the reasons against setting up a Facebook or Twitter account for them or writing emails in their own voice when they're still at an age they think computers, television, the sun and the neighbours dog are the same thing? Didn't think so.
But don't get me wrong. I love kids. It's just that I have more distance and perspective on the subject than actual parents. In fact, not only am I an awesome parent who's never had kids, I'm also a rockin' uncle and an adept babysitter. Just give me a call and I'll show you — if I'm not too busy drinking coffee or neck deep in ads for teak dressers.
Michael Kissinger has been writing about his impending midlife crisis for the Courier since turning 40 in February.
