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Kids love repetition. This is coming from the guy/child that watched National Lampoon’s Vacation twice a day, every day, for an entire summer back in 1987. Wally World dad.
The Permanent Roommate and I walked into the back room to find the kid doing this to the wall. The crazy thing — it wasn’t done with crayon or marker or any type of writing utensil. It was a wooden tomato from his kitchen play set.
So does this officially make us parents? I feel like the first destruction of personal property is a big deal. We might have a party. I might frame this actual photo. We’ve had a bottle of champagne in the fridge for months, perhaps this is just the reason to pop it open.
“Hurray! The kid is ruining shit! We’re officially, officially parents.”
We are going to do something to mark this very special occasion.
Besides curse under our breath, scrub the wall and confiscate all painted fruit. I’m about to Schindler’s List my way through the painted fruit.
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Most parents remember the exact date of the first step, the first word and even the first time the kid mutters “I love you.”
I’m not like most parents.
I’ll always remember June 10, 2012 as the day the kid dropped his first F-bomb, at the tender age of 2 years and 85 days.
Permanent Roommate: “I’m sorry buddy, the remote isn’t working.”
Kid: “Fuck”
[Dead silence followed by muffled laughter]
Permanent Roommate: “What was that?”
Other parents will place the blame elsewhere regarding “where he learned it from” but I’ll take full responsibility on this one because that remote NEVER works.
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