here are a lot of things about being a Dad that rock me like a hurricane. For example, the fact that my kids have never heard Rock Me Like A Hurricane, but sometime in the near future I’ll suddenly explode it into their lives like a 300lb water balloon full of Teutonic-accented ketchup — and the knowledge that this revelatory act of revelation will leave them quivering blobs of white kid jelly, shaken to their foundations and begging for more. That’s the definition of badass, my friends, and perhaps the most powerful argument for parenthood you’ll ever hear.

On the flip side: kids generate a lot of crap. I don’t mean that in the “I’m incontinent” sense, although god knows that navigating your way through years of diapers and butt wipes and handling the fecal matter of others is more than enough justification for a serious case of the screaming heebie-jeebies. What I mean, gentle reader, is that by virtue of them being little people who don’t necessarily want to spend their first hours on earth watching reruns of WKRP in Cincinnati or reading magical realist novels of a New York that never was or… um… sleeping, other things are required to keep them amused, engaged, involved in the world around them and – most importantly – prevent them from screaming every fucking minute of every fucking day.

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