I raise my child. All day. Well, at some point my wife comes home, then she helps.
I am a middle aged guy. I am married to an amazing woman. We have an amazing son. I’m not sure what to say here. I feel like the more personal I get, the worse I’m going to look.
I’m a political atheist. I’m a feminist. My religious stance is “satisfied agnostic”. I have developed a whimsical miasma of spirituality that helps quell my natural misanthropy. I listen to Melodic Death/Black Metal. I play guitar. I am a bicycle enthusiast that also sometimes rides bikes. I like food and beer. I’m really good at air hockey. Impressed? Just wait, I will win you over with a hackneyed disclaimer about my writing style.
There should be a reasonable expectation of creative anachronism in a good portion of my posts, as I may be writing about ephemeral states of my baby’s development that are relatively well past. I can justify this because my brain is all jacked on a constant stream of adrenaline from the infamous “hyper-vigilance” one experiences while caring for a creature that would as soon crawl off a cliff, as suck its thumb. I hope this adds to the fever pitch tone of what I’m trying to express. If you feel this concept comes across as disingenuous, please chastise me publicly; that would be real mature.
I have several people that will help me not sound like an imbecile here. My wife is contributing creatively; she’s smarter than me, so it helps. I will enlist a number of educated individuals to continue to polish this thing. Be patient, it will probably get better. It might not, though.
-Damn Good Dad, a.k.a. Clinton