Tag Archives: tony stewart

Attention, NASCAR driver Greg Biffle: My 6-year-old is fed up with your shenanigans

NASCAR driver Greg Biffle, if you see my first-grader on the playground, you might want to watch your back.

GateHouse — It’s a static, shatterproof rule of parenting that, purely through nature and momentum, you will endeavor to pass on to your children your own interests and activities, either by grand design or subconscious manipulation, and yes I am looking at you, Couple Who Brought Your Four Grade-School Children To The Van Halen Concert In 2005, Seriously, That’s Shockingly Irresponsible, Mostly Because It Was A Hagar Tour, I Mean Roth I Can Justify, But The “Dreams” Guy Really What Are You Thinking? (I might also mention you, Juggalo Parent Nation.)

It follows then that there’s an equally static, shatterproof rule that there will be things you reflexively shield your kids from, strive to help them avoid at all costs, such as ignorance or prejudice, or badminton, or country music. Ha! I’m just kidding, of course. Badminton’s not that bad.

For instance, my son to this day has no idea that Radio Disney exists; not because I don’t think he’d enjoy it, but because like many six-year-olds he is quick to adopt MANIACAL OBSESSIONS regarding media absorption, and frankly the vaguest possibility of having to listen to Radio Disney even in the briefest, three-minute squirts made me begin dreaming up ways to remove my eyes with a potato peeler, so, long story short, my son’s world is a glorious Jonas-free wonderland, and this is how it shall remain.

But the thing is, I say that now, and I can have the best intentions, but at some point you have to release your child into the world, which is full of friends and stores and outside influences and classmates with Radio Disney backpacks. And when that happens, things begin spiraling faster and faster and time speeds up and up and before long you lose your grip on whatever thin filaments of control you might have hoped to have and then you find yourself watching a NASCAR race on a Sunday afternoon because your son — who, according to our earlier law, is supposed to be into Springsteen, running, “Weird Al” Yankovic and maintaining the rigidly beautiful organization of his iTunes library — is turning into a surprisingly knowledgeable juicebox-downing NASCAR fan. It is likely too late to change his name to Darrell, but don’t think I haven’t thought about it.

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So my son is pregnant, apparently

juniorGateHouse — There will come a day, sometime in the mystery years ahead, when my son, who is now 5 years old, will tell me he’s having a kid of his own, and when that day comes it will be change everything that I know about everything that I know. It will be a crazy, life-rattling event, a strange and magical thing, and probably a great deal unlike the first time he told me he was having a baby, which was Thursday at lunch.

My son, who is, again, five years old, is convinced that he has a baby in his belly. For the record, there is not. I checked.

But I also know this because I know that he is five years old, and a dude, which are two pretty crucial factors to consider when deciding if the person before you is or is not pregnant. However, the little man, being five years old, and a dude, does not much care what Science has to say about anything, really: pregnancy, bedtimes, why sharp wet things do not go in toasters. He is adamant, and there is no amount of haggling, explaining, haranguing, Googling, Encyclopedia Brittanica-reading or screenings of “Junior” that will convince him otherwise, because his fundamental misconstruing of the wonders of reproduction comes exactly at the time he has decided that everything he says is factually indisputable, while everything I say is a piping hot load of pllttthb.

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