Dad on Arrival: The Lighter Side of the Dark Side of Parenting Humor
If you’re looking for serious advice on parenting, you’ve come to the wrong place. Unless, of course, you consider “serious advice on parenting” how to assemble a backyard swing out of duct tape, 8-inch foam padding and a set of bungee chords that you found in the back of a rental car.
What you will find at Dad on Arrival is my take on the insanity of raising three kids born within three years. Yes, this is self-inflicted insanity, but it’s pretty damn entertaining. Will you learn some nuggets of parenting wisdom along the way? Maybe. I would imagine that I’ll present plenty of examples of what not to do. But mostly, and hopefully, you’ll just chuckle and then move on to your next online procrastination tool.
To set the scene, here are the primary players in this farce:
The Cast of Characters
The Dad: a.k.a. Jeff, a.k.a. El Jefe. “Yours truly,” “the royal ‘we'” and “omniscient third-person narrator” all rolled into one kryptonite-immune super parent. I am a freelance-writer-turned-online-marketing-guru who works from home. You might call me a work-from-home dad, meaning I try to shut myself in a home office for eight hours a day while my kids terrorize the nanny in other rooms of the house. My status should not be confused with a stay-at-home dad—those guys are the real heros—but I still see a lot of my kids, which provides ample ammunition for this blog.
The Mom: a.k.a. The Wife. Incubator of world’s greatest babies and determined slave-master of The Dad. Also works from home three days a week, sharing the home office and domestic insanity with The Dad in rather close quarters.
The Boy: a.k.a. Super O. Four years old. Dapper Rat Pack-style crooner reborn in a 21st Century preschooler. Physique resembling a yardstick on a diet. Once out-climbed a spider monkey to reach a chocolate-covered banana. Likes to ask people, “How was your weekend?” but only on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Loves Peyton Manning and wearing his superhero (Super O) costume. Inexplicably worships The Dad.
The Girl: a.k.a. Godzilla. Two and a half years old. Part human female, part fire-breathing dragon, part mechanized doomsday machine. Crawled at 5 and 1/2 months, walked at 9 months, started doing pull-ups from her crib rails by her first birthday. Currently being researched by the National Renewable Energy Laboratory as perpetual motion machine capable of powering medium-sized metropolitan areas after receiving a mild dose of sugar. Likes to beat the crap out of The Dad.
The Baby: a.k.a. Heavy D. This guy made a grand entrance into this world, peeing on his mom within seconds of arrival. A bit rotund at birth, he mastered the long-extinct language of the pterodactyl by day three of life. Now a full-blown one year old, he has eaten his way through life like The Hungry Caterpillar on a bender.
The Dog: a.k.a. Olive Petunia, Squirrel Slayer. Furry. Black. Likes meat. Determined killer of small backyard rodents. Just slipped me a note as I was putting together this page: “Please leave me out of this. It’s bad enough that you set those three little monsters on me. For the love of god, just let me get my 20 hours of sleep a day in peace!”
Contact The Dad
Need to chat? Want to vent? Have millions of dollars from a Nigerian prince that you need to transfer discreetly to the U.S. via my bank account?
You Know Better
So don’t copy, re-distribute or plagiarise anything on this site without permission. All original material (text and images) is copyrighted by Jeff Kent and defended by an army of angry, poop-throwing toddlers. And lawyers, who are almost as scary.