I would be a terrible parent. The list of reasons is extensive and includes, I drink too much, like I need somebody else to spend my money on, I don't like the fact that kids are smelly and messy, I don't want to share the TV, I hated homework as a kid - not really interested in reliving that agony, I desperately want to appear cool and that is impossible when driving around with screaming kids in a beat up mom-mobile, and I hate the fact that all people that blog are obligated to post about their stupid kids.
Check that. Apparently, I already am a terrible parent. To a boy and a girl. No, sorry. They're both boys. And there's three of them. I think the above reasons still apply. I mostly take my parenting tips from the book "The Greatest Christmas Pageant Ever" wherein the parents are almost completely absent and the kids run amuck.
And it's working! Two recent events have encouraged me to the fact that despite my terrible parenting skills, my kids are probably going to live, or something. My middle child, who is younger than the oldest child and more or less older than his younger brother, if my math is correct, is somewhat of a precocious child. And I mean precocious, not in the Little Billy got mud on his church clothes sense, but more in the Atilla the Hun destroying entire continents sense. Tonight he pounded down the stairs, (how does a stick thin, seventy pound kid sound exactly like pigmy hippos performing traditional irish step dancing?) and declared that when he grew up he was going to get a tattoo. Of himself. Contemplating a tattoo on himself of himself on himself. I'm pretty sure there were several more decreasingly small tattoos on decreasingly small hims; and it was pretty trippy. All I really could think was, "Wow, Inception and narcissism all in one fell swoop, you are going to rule the world. (and possibly be kind of a jerk.)" And they say kids these days don't have any self confidence.
The second involves my youngest, who's like ten or six or four or something. (It's probably four, he totally can't hold his liquor.) Anyways, we were at a restaurant and the waitress was trying to score some brownie points by drawing pictures for the young ruffian. He requested that she draw a picture of him, to which she complied. "There's my face!" He exclaimed. "Can you draw my body?" She began to draw him, but he interrupted with, "is that my butt?" I gave him a stern look, and a tsk, but as the response didn't involve f-bombs, I left it at that. And then he told her, "Draw my penis." I yelled at him, "JACK!" (Which happens, oddly enough, to be his name.) To which he rightly responded, "Draw my penis, please." What a gentleman.
Ah CRAP! I just wrote a mommy blog. Except I'm a daddy. I wrote a daddy-pretending-to-be-a-mommy blog, but not in a weird way. Maybe a little weird, it's just that I have fantastic legs and it's a shame to hide them under pants when what really shows them off is a fishne... Umm, what I meant to say was, after this, can I even call myself a terrible parent anymore? All this time spent being disreputable, and to throw it away in one careless moment. Damnit! Tomorrow I'll demean them and publicly crush their dreams, maybe then I'll truly earn that "Worst Dad Ever" mug that I occasionally launch at them in a drunken rage.