I can’t wait until The Squish is a petulant teenager. I am building a cache of embarrassing things I can throw in his face every time he cracks wise. I’ll be like “Oh really, you don’t want to mow the lawn? Well, maybe I didn’t want to wipe your butt when you pooped in your pants, every day!” Stuff like that. I’m so excited. When he’s all distant and trying to hate me and stuff, I can remind him of how he would only sleep cuddled up on my chest.
I’ve got other diabolical plans as well. I will have creative punishments, such as when he sasses me at the dinner table, I’ll pick him up from school in a tutu. I’ll start rollerblading in front of his friends when he comes home after curfew. I’ll make a youtube channel of me singing pop songs and show his pals when he fails math.
Some of you will say “This is cruel and unusual!” Well, if he acts right, there won’t be any problems, huh?
In reality, this is all very wishful thinking. He will probably be much more sophisticated than me when it comes to emotional warfare. He is at a severe advantage. All he will ever have to break me down is say, “but daddy, I love you.” and I’ll fold like a taco. If he plays his cards right, I’m doomed.
A man can dream,
Clinton, a.k.a. the reason my son will need therapy.