introduction to death by children

Introduction to Death By Children

by Christopher "G" Garlington

(podcast version)

y name is Christopher Garlington and I write these stories so that

when my head finally explodes, the authorities will have a ready

explanation.

You're probably a parent. If you aren't then FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST

DON'T READ THIS BLOG if you intend to breed. The stories I'm going to

tell will change your mind.

In that respect, this site is not really about the crazy stuff my kids

do to try to fling me into cardiac arrest. It's about parenting. It's

about how we really don't grow up until we have kids-then we lord over

them with our vast experience and wit until we finally feel superior

to another seven year old and can get on with our truncated

development.

My own childhood was fraught with ridiculous and harrowing acts of

stupidity and I am lucky to be alive. There are countless moments when

I unknowingly stared into death's jaws; countless times when the

probability of gaining the nickname "stumpy" was improbably high.

There were concussions, live burials, forest fires, demolitions, and

public nudity. I was morbidly obsessed with fire, electricity,

poisonous snakes, fire, BB guns, power tools, wind-powered home-made

go karts, and fire.

Yet I managed to make it into adulthood intact, trick a brilliant, hot

scientist to marry me, and impregnate her.

When my daughter was born I sighed with relief: surely a girl won't

get into the tortuous predicaments I embraced as a boy.

What an idiot.

Shortly after that, my son showed up and I set out to mold him into a

better version of myself.

What an idiot.

There are two mistakes I've made with my children. First, I've always

told them the truth. No matter how uncomfortable, I vowed to always

answer any question as honestly and fully as possible. In hindsight, I

can see where I went wrong there.

a) Kids do not care what you think. If the words coming out of your

mouth don't add up to food or television, their eyes will glaze over

and they'll start daydreaming about setting the curtains on fire.

b) Children are malicious, mean-spirited, cocky, impatient, and more

often than not, smarter than their parents; they will see through your

little hippy manifesto the third or fourth time you answer some

dingbat question in detail; they will then confer with friends, abuse

the library, and watch R rated movies when you aren't looking; and

they will lie in wait until the preacher comes over for a cup of

coffee whereupon they will march into kitchen and announce, "My dad

told me how to masturbate," grab a cookie and leave.

Secondly, I told my children true stories about my childhood instead

of making stuff up. I should've lied. I should've told them stories

exemplifying courage, character, and leadership. Instead, I told them

the truth. I told them stories about catching snakes, building swamp

boats, chasing wild boars, setting things on fire, complex and nearly

fatal pranks involving farm machinery, learning to drive, electric

urine disasters, sneaking into government facilities, and smoking. And

drinking. There might've been a few brief tales about carousing--I

can't remember them all.

Apparently, and someone could've told me this beforehand, kids take a

lot of cues in their moral and critical thought development

from---this will blow your mind--their parents' stories!

Consequently, Malcolm, down at poison control, knows me by name; there

are paramedics who can point my son out in a crowd; and the guys at

the bowling alley cheerfully (in unison) greet him as `Cheesefry!'

I've tried to fix it. The kids will say "tell me a story about your

childhood, Dad" and I'll launch into a hilarious tale about school

safety preparation or emergency exits and they'll throw the scissors

at me and beat me with implements until I break down. Then I tell

them.

I tell them everything.

So welcome. Welcome to my parenting disaster. As my son is still

pretty young, I imagine I'll have plenty to write about and, as I

lived a totally immature life well into my 30s, there's plenty of

backstory to fill in on boring weeks when the kids make it through

without breaking anything, getting arrested, or blowing themselves up.

In regards to the apparent vested interest I have in my children

engaging in highly dangerous and potentially lethal activities:

a) My wife's a lawyer;

b) Please see "Disclaimers."

Yours truly