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Almost Scientific Fact Of The Day 10/1/12

'British men typically have bigger penises than their French counterparts but are less well endowed than Germans, a new study has suggested. The average penis size for a British man is apparently 5.5in when erect - larger than the French at 5.3in, Australians (5.2in), Americans (5.1in) and Irish (5in).

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Another Motherless Son  4/23/14

It’s been quite a while, huh?  I guess I’ve been a bad blogger.  Well, I’m not usually a “good” blogger under the best of circumstances, but it’s because I’ve been being a good dad.  Or at least as good a dad as I can be.

You see, my son’s mum- my first wife- died of breast cancer on March 8th.  He’s 14 and she was 41.  Yeah, 41.

Fuck you, Universe. 

It’s been brutal, heart wrenching, devastating, unadulterated pain for everyone who knew and loved her.  Her three children (all boys aged 5, 8 and 14), her husband, her mother, her sisters and brothers, cousins who were as close as siblings, aunts and uncles, friends who were like family, and countless other people who were touched by the incredibly special person that she was. 

No child should lose their mother, but my son and his young brothers did.

No mother should have to bury her child, but my son’s grandmother did.

And my heart aches and bleeds for their loss, and for all who loved her.

She died in my son’s arms- he held her while she took her last breath.

He’s the third generation of first born sons in our family who experienced this... I don’t know... catharsis.  I held my mum while she died.  My dad held his mum while she died.  And now my son, my sweet boy, has this cross to bear.  I was 39, and it still stays with me. My dad was 58.  My son is only 14.  A boy.

Death isn’t always like Hollywood.  People don’t always close their eyes and drift off like they’re going to sleep.  No.  They often shudder and seize.  Their eyes roll back in their heads as they pass on.  It’s not pretty.  That’s the death my son saw.

I’m sorry if this is upsetting to any of you- it’s upsetting for me, too.  But it’s what happened, it’s what my boy went through, and I know the images from that day will never leave him.  Ever.  

Fuck you, Universe. 

Wasn’t taking his mum from him enough?  You’re gonna make him carry that, too?

We’ve talked about that day a few times.  He said- 

“It was scary, Dad, I felt it coming.”  Oh, man... 

I’ve wished so many times that there were a way for me to carry his pain for him, to protect him and fight this battle for him, because it’s so big and so overwhelming.  But I can’t, and it’s like a knife in my heart every time I see the sadness in his eyes.

So, what can I do?  Therapy? 

He said- 

“I’m not going to therapy, Dad.”  And he said it with conviction.

Well, I’m not putting him in therapy.  If he doesn’t want to go, then he isn’t going to get anything out of it.  You can lead a horse to water....

I spoke with a few friends who lost their mothers at a young age, one of them only two years older than my boy is now.  They went to therapy and just nodded their heads and said what they had to say- they went through the motions.  There was no real “healing”.  How the Hell does a child heal from something like that?  One of my friends said-

“It fucked me up, and I didn’t deal with it until my 30’s.”  Not what I wanted to hear, but this is what we’ve got.  It’s his road to travel, but he won’t be doing it alone because I’m going to be beside him every single step of the way.

So, I went to therapy.  To try and find a way to help my boy.  To teach him how to carry the load.  And to let him know that he is not alone.  I went to therapy because I was scared.  Scared because I didn’t know what to do.  Well, now I do.  Kind of.

What I’ve learned boils down to this, and it’s very simple- 

Love him and be there for him.  That’s it.

So, I love him unconditionally, and he knows this.  For that I am very grateful.

I am there for him unconditionally, and he knows this, too.  Because I’m his Dad.

I try and be more gentle now, because he won’t get a mother’s gentle love ever again.  I write him notes every morning, wishing him a good day and that I’ll be thinking of him, that he’s a great kid and I’m proud of him. I always sign it-

I love you.  Love, Dad.

I found out that he’s saved every single one.  I saw them in his room, neatly piled on a shelf.  It made me happy and sad all at the same time.

I’m there for him everyday, because I have to give him two parents worth of time.  We spend time together playing video games, watching movies, listening to music, washing up after dinner... whatever it is, I let him know that he is not alone

I got him a heavy punching bag and some gloves so he can kick the shit out of something when he’s feeling overwhelmed and angry.  He calls it therapy.  Sometimes, he lets me hold the bag for him while he throws punch after punch after punch, the tears welling up in his eyes, his face contorted with anger and sadness and confusion.  So, I just hold the bag and... be there.  Because I’m his Dad.  I’m his only parent.

Fuck you, Universe.

The therapist told me-

Keep her memory alive.  Take him to places she lived, start a Memory Book, have him be the one who keeps her memory alive for his brothers.  These are things that will help him grieve.” 

So, I’m planning a trip to New York City, where he was born.

I’ll show him his first home in Brooklyn.  I’ll take him to places he and his Mum went together.  His first playground, Prospect Park, FAO Schwartz, Chinatown, and The Village.  The place where I met his Mum and the birthing center where he was born, coincidentally, right across the street.  Hopefully it will help him grieve, who knows.  Either way, it’ll help him start his journey, and help him keep her memory alive.

This entry has rambled and yelled and swore, I know.  But this is the hardest thing my kid has ever had to face, and I pray that he never has to face something this brutal ever again.  That if tragedy or deep sadness enter his life at some other juncture, he has the strength and maturity to cope, and the will and conviction to thrive.  He is a wonderful human being.  But I’m still scared for him.

Every day I have moments of fear.  Fear that I won’t be able to help him through this.  Fear that I’m not strong enough to find the right way.  Fear that he won’t let himself grieve.  It’s a big fucking hill to climb- you’re damn right I’m scared.  Wouldn’t you be?

But these are just moments, and it’s ok to have them.  I remind myself that every decision I’ve made since the day he was born has been easy, that I’ve always done what I thought would be the best thing for my son. 

So, right now the best thing is to be strong and present, and not to give in to fear (cue the Yoda*).

*more on that another time. 

I know I can do this for him.  I have to.

I know it’s going to be hard- the hardest thing we’ve ever faced.  Because it is.

But, you know what?  It’s also going to be easy.

Because I love him.

Because he’s my son.

Because I’m his Dad.


That’s it for now.


Thanks for reading.  See you soon.





It's Time For A New Dad's Holiday 1/18/14

Right, let’s start off with a possibly contentious statement.


Men who are husbands and fathers get shafted when it comes to holidays and special occasions.


I’ll show you what I’m talking about, and we’ll keep score while we go.  

Christmas-  It’s all about the kids.  As it should be.  However, don’t get a crap present for your partner, guys, put some thought and care into it.  Do something special for The Missus, or you’ll probably hear about it.  So, we have to use The Pampering Coefficient* to keep the holidays running smoothly.  It’s like Sisyphus pushing a bloody great rock up a hill.  Good luck.

*I just made that up to sound all scientific and shit.




Her Birthday/Your Birthday-  An occasion to approach with the upmost care.  Men often drop the ball on the “Her Birthday” planning.  And by men, I mean me.  I have GOT TO get better (even though I’m sure I’m not alone).  Card and flowers in the morning, well thought out dinner with reservations, maybe a night away, spa treatment, a present that shows you care (I do, however, rock the presents).   A happy wife is a happy life.  Planning for a husband’s birthday is a lot easier.  We’re content with a socket set and some sex- quick trip to the hardware store and 3 1/2 minutes in the bedroom.  Piece-o’-cake.




Valentine’s Day-  Here’s a conversation between 2 dudes that has never happened-

“Hey Man, how was your Valentine’s?  Did your wife take you to do something special?”

“Well, she did take me out for dinner at my favorite steak house on 4th street, and she did get me a great bottle of whiskey.  But she didn’t give me tickets to the game like your wife did.  Women just don’t get it sometimes, Bro.”

“I know!  Even though my wife got me tickets to the game, she forgot to make reservations for dinner! I mean, who does that on Valentine’s?!  So we ended up waiting 2 hours for a table.  Not what I was looking for, Dude.”

Yeah, not a conversation I’ll be having on the jobsite.



Anniverary-  Again, the onus is on the men to deliver a special evening.  And we better not blow it, or else.



Mother’s Day-  A special day for every hardworking mum.  You’ll hear no arguments from me.



 Father’s Day-  There ya go, Lads!  Nice to break that scoring drought, eh?  I love Father’s Day...




July 4th/Summer National Holidays-  Everyone likes summertime holidays.  Win-win.



So there you have it.  Men are outscored 6-2.  

I left out some holidays like Halloween and Easter, because they’re more kid oriented.  I also left out the “when we met” and “first date anniversaries”.  Thank Jebus that Mrs. Huttsez doesn’t force these upon me, because I have friends who have to mark those occasions too!  In fact, a guy I work with told me recently that he’d forgotten the “first date anniversary” and he was in the dog house as a result.  Wow.

Hmmmmm.  Dear Women Who Are Crazy, if you want to shake the “psycho chick-high maintenance-overly dramatic” labels maybe you should stop being so crazy?  Just a thought.

Look, we’re men.  We’re good at fixing things, doing manly man work, and carrying heavy objects.  We take out the rubbish and kill the mice.  We get rid of spiders and change the tire when it’s flat.  We unclog the bathroom sink p-trap that’s full of rancid hair and we move big dressers.  Why on Earth would you expect us to be good event planners?  Right?

But yeah, 6-2.  Not exactly the parity that political correctness and Modern Parenting are pretending to call for, eh?

Looks to me like men really are getting a bit of the old shaft.  Even if I take Christmas off the table -that one was a bit thin I’ll admit- it’s still 5-2.  I think it’s time to even the score a touch.  And, strangely, I have an idea or two about how to do it.  If I may...

Here’s some things a lot of men/husbands/dads like- sex, sports, sofas, and sandwiches.  We also love the times when no one is at home, because they’re very rare.  A lot of us like beer.  And a lot of us like weed.  I’d like to propose a new holiday for dads that embraces all of these elements.

Let’s just go ahead and say, completely randomly, that the last Saturday of January will now be known as Four S Saturday.

The family pre-makes loads of gourmet sandwiches and then leaves.  The dad watches sports and eats said sandwiches on the sofa all day.  Obviously with beer or weed or both, if he so chooses.  The children don’t come home that night.  The missus does.  Oh yeah!

The Sandwich

That would “even” out the scoring at 5-3.  But I’d be cool with that.  I’m sure most men would agree with me*

*Dudes, let’s make this happen!.

So, how about it women?  Whudayasay?  You give us Four S Saturday, and we’ll call it even at 5-3.  You still get the better deal, right?  I mean come on!

The Sofa

I’d be surprised if you didn’t agree as it’s the mature and intelligent thing to do.  We all know women are smarter and more mature than men.  And it’s obvious that you would choose to make things more equal.  Because you’re so smart.

So, we’re on the same page here?  Great!  Glad we could work that out.

Hey, um, according to my calendar, Four S Saturday is coming up next week-  January 25th!  Wow, that’s soon!  You might wanna get planning!

The Sports

A quick word about the name.  It could be 5 S Saturday if you add spliffs or suds.  I suppose you could call it 6 S Saturday if you added both.  The point is to keep it flexible.  Pick and choose your S’s a la carte.  What doesn’t change- the kids still leave and sleep elsewhere, the missus returns for an evening of romance/ 3/12 minutes on the sofa.

The Spliff

The Suds

Before anyone accuses me of making an outlandish request/completely talking out of my arse, I’d like to mention that I held back on my desire to take the score to a respectable 5-4 by suggesting another... idea.

But I don’t want to push my luck, ya know?

We can talk about “BJ Day” another time.   :) 

Nice working with you....

That’s it for now.


Follow the shenanigans- @huttsez


If you’re a dude who just read this, and you don’t go and “like” the Huttsez Facebook Page. then you’re a douchebag.  I just went out on a limb for you, Bro, so don’t leave me hangin’!  Cool.


Thanks for reading.  See you soon.



“...the unread voice of a generation.”



Drug Store Confessions 12/28/13

Going to the drug store (chemist for my UK readers) can often entail the purchase of some... awkward items.  

Yeah, yeah we all get toothpaste, soaps, lotion, deodorant, shampoos and conditioners.  That’s easy.

But they don’t just carry innocuous grooming and hygiene products, do they? 

I can’t even begin to describe the angst, embarrassment, and paranoia of me as a teenage boy buying condoms at the West End Drug.  What if a friend’s mum or dad saw me?  Jebus, I’m cringing just thinking about it.  Even burying them in a Mad magazine, a candy bar- and whatever else- didn’t work either, because there was always  “The Moment” where the cash register lady would uncover my hidden bounty and look up at me, her eyes boring into my very soul and judging me as a young FORNICATOR, a mere sapling unworthy of so manly a purchase.

Grammar Police will surely note the missing apostrophe.

In the end, it was a small price to pay because I was using them for- you know- the sex.  So, I ran the gauntlet.  I bought those rubber johnnies.  A man-boy’s gotta do what a man-boy’s gotta do.

Now, when you become a parent your trips to the drug store become more frequent, and the items tend to get a little more...interesting?  Diverse?  Sure, whatever.

Take, for instance, a common post-birth problem and every new mum’s favorite-  haemorrhoids.  Hey, it’s a lot of friggin’ pushing to get a baby out, right?  These things happen.

rrhoid rage

Cue the new father doing a late night run to the drug store for some preparation-H along  with the diapers and wipes.  Gets all the items, goes to the counter and the checkout person uncovers the soothing haemorrhoid creme.  Then up comes the head followed by the judging looks- “Oooh nasty!  This guy’s got some serious PROBLEMS”.

“The Moment” is an unavoidable part of going to the drug store.  That checkout person is going to judge you and there’s nothing you can do about it.  It’s just the way it is. 

The reason I’m on this topic, is that I had to make a late night, emergency trip to the drug store the other night.  For some mineral oil. 

Obersturmführer Destroddler (4yr.old daughter) was experiencing a light bout of constipation and her doctor said to give her a bit of mineral oil.  Off I went. 

I didn’t really fancy wandering around looking for the mineral oil, so I walked right up to one of the employees and said-

“Excuse me sir, could you tell me where I could find the mineral oil?”  The gentleman looked at me and we had “The Moment”.

“Mineral oil?”

“Yes, sir, mineral oil.”  I replied.

Well now,” he started walking down the aisle “mineral oil’s in LAXATIVES over in aisle 6.  I’ll take you there.”  

Classically, he delivered the word “laxatives” right as he was passing the line for the register.  He projected nicely, too.  Definitely would’ve reached the back row.  Thanks, man, now I get to have “The Moment” with everyone in line.  Excellent.

"I'm gonna take this poor bastard over to LAXATIVES."

We get over to aisle six and my discrete and helpful friend handed me the product in question. 

There you go, sir.”  was what his mouth said, but his eyes said “Hope this helps out with the shitting thing.”

It was at this point that I could’ve said something like-

“Thanks, there’s a 4 year old at home who’s gonna be a lot happier tomorrow, you know what I mean?” 

But I didn’t, I just owned it.  Stone cold, straight up. 

“Thank you sir, I really really appreciate it.”  Gave him a little nod of thanks through my furrowed brow, and shuffled off to the register with my single item.  I didn’t try to hide it.  Why bother?  I’m a parent- I’ve been pissed and vomited and shat on.  Pride is a luxury rarely afforded to the parents of small children. 

So, I set that jumbo sized bottle of intestinal lubricant on the counter with conviction.  The register dude and I had the now obligatory “moment”.

However, being in the business of “owning it” I said-

“Whatever it takes, right dude?”  with a little shrug.

He rang me right up, feeling uncomfortable as I had just turned the tables on his judgemental ass and asked me if I’d like a bag.

“Oh hell no.  But thank you.”  Stone cold, baby.  AND polite.  Boo yah!

I walked out of that Walgreen’s like a man on a mission.  Like a man who was going home to “release the Dark Passenger”.*

*Thank you, Dexter..

When you’re a parent, you just have to get used to buying some gnarly stuff.  Here’s a quick list of a few things I’ve had to get at the drug store for my kids.

  1.    Pink eye ointment.  Conjunctivitis is a good time.
  2.    Cream for an infected knob end.  Yeah.
  3.    Special anti-fungal foot stuff.
  4.    All sorts of assorted laxatives.
  5.    Head lice shampoo and comb.  Crazy amounts of fun.
  6.    Weird scalp condition cream.
  7.    Medicine for pinworm.  Feel free to google that one.

I’ve realized that going to the drug store is like a benchmark, or road map, of where you are in your life.  What you buy tells a story. 

Condoms- No babies please!

Pregnancy test-  Ok, it’s now ON.

Diapers-  Tired new parent

Haemorrhoid cream-  Tired new dad taking one for the team.

Pediatric hydration drinks for power vomiting- Tired and crusty parent

Mineral oil-  Parent who has experienced the joys of manual disimpacting.  Again, feel free to google away.

Condoms-  Please, Sweet Screaming Jesus, no more...

Ice pack-  For vasectomy recovery.  And... breathe.

It feels good “owning it” at the drug store.  I’m looking forward to the next family bout with diarrhea.

“A jumbo bottle of your finest pink bismuth, sir. And hop to it if you would please, my good man, I’m feeling a #3* knocking on the door!”

*A combo of numbers 1 and 2.  Also neither #1 nor #2.  You’re welcome.


That’s it for now.


I’m on the shtwitter- @huttsez


“Like” the Huttsez facebook page


Thanks for reading.  See you soon.



“... the unread voice of a generation.”



Coal Fear  12/11/13

Christmas is a double edged sword.  Full of cheer, parties, angry shoppers, and sugar jacked children.  There’s good and bad.  Whudahyagonnado?

But, do you know what Christmas has that kicks more arse than anything?  That makes it the most important holiday ever? 


Santa is like the ‘Odin’ of all holiday icons- there are none more powerful... and yet benevolent.


I love him because he has given me “THE POWER!” 

The power of COAL FEAR.  Ho Ho Ho! 

Ok, everyone know what “The Elf On The Shelf” is?

For those who don’t, it’s a little Elf doll that comes with a book (I’ll be popping in an excerpt in a mo).  Basically, Santa sends the elf to your home to watch the children during the day, and then magically flies to the North Pole at night to report to Santa on whether the kids have been naughty or nice.  Kinda like Santa’s little Narco.

So, we got out our elf and book a few days ago and reintroduced The Destroddler (4 yr old daughter) to her old friend Narco the Elf*.

*Not his actual name.

“Look Sweetie, it’s Santa’s elf!” I said.  “He’s going to report back to Santa  if you’ve been naughty or nice.” 

The Destroddler’s eyes went all squinty as she looked at Narco with unabashed suspicion.

“Dad, what happens if he tells Santa that I’ve been naughty?”

“Well, instead of presents, Santa will bring you coal.”

There was a mighty pause.

“What’s coal, Dad?”  I could tell she didn’t like where this was going.

“Coal is a piece of black, dirty rock.”

I watched the gears turning in my daughter’s head as she tried to come to grips with the possibility of a stocking full of coal instead of My Little Ponies.  I think she was having a hard time understanding how The Great Bringer Of Presents could be so spiteful as to deliver a dirty great pile of rocks to our house.

“Santa’s gonna bwing me coal?!”

“Only if you’ve been naughty, Sweetheart.  But I’m sure that you’ll be good for Santa, because you’re already a really good girl.  Were you good for Mum today?”

She took a moment to think.  And then said this-

“Well Dad, I may have been... a little bit bad today.”  Her finger and thumb held about a millimeter apart.  It was one of those lovely ‘moments’.  You know what I mean...

Why did she admit to her small transgressions (which according to reports were an all day stream)?

Because she has COAL FEAR. 

We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas...

And I couldn’t be happier.  And I don’t care if that sounds mean.  If you have a problem with that, feel free to come over and put her to bed for me tomorrow night.

It’s not a terrible thing.  She realizes that bad behavior has consequences, as it should- in this case coal instead of presents.

She knows that Narco will run off to Santa first chance he get’s and spill the beans.

The Elf and Obersturmführer Bällerinä are definitely not friends.  I think she may be plotting a way to get rid of him.  I’m not kidding.

A little part of me is sad that she had to experience this betrayal by Santa.  But-you know- just a really little part.  The rest of me is virtually fist pumping and doing a “Running Man” victory dance and saying “That’s right!  Your arse is mine for the month of December!  I own you!”  Feels good. 

Parents of young children need as much help as we can get.  COAL FEAR gives us a mighty hammer to wield that gives us a pretty easy run heading up to Christmas.  If she starts to crank one up, all I have to do is say- 

“I hope you make a good choice, Sweetie.  Because, you know, Santa’s gonna find out if you’re bad.”

And that’s it.  She settles down and becomes lovely again almost instantly.  It’s the toddler equivalent of snapping to attention whilst yelling “SIR, YES SIR!”.  I love you COAL FEAR.

Now to the book.  My daughter definitely feels like there’s something not quite right with the elf.  He’s the tattle tale.  The snitch.  The Edward Snowden of Christmas.  No one likes a rat, even when they’re 4.

She has a point.  There’s a vaguely creepy undertone resonating through the book.  No surprise really, as it’s about a magical elf who totally violates your privacy on a daily basis, taking notes and reporting back to that coal-giving-bastard Santa, everything you did that day.  Allow me to demonstrate.

Here’s an excerpt.  Read it once like you’re reading to a little kid.  You know, all bubbly and happy and shit.  Then read it another time all sinister, or in a demon voice (my personal fave).


At holiday time Santa sends me to you.

I watch and report on all that you do.

My job’s an assignment from Santa himself.

I am his helper, a friendly scout elf.


“Friendly scout elf” my arse!  It’s more like the NSA, except cute and in a red hat.    Again, I don’t care because I’m in the middle of a Halcyon period of child compliance, and it’s blissful.  Piss off if you don’t like it.

So, if you’ve got a small kid(s) and you’re not using the COAL FEAR, then you had best jump on that train pronto, ‘cause you’re running out of time.  Unless of course you’d prefer to ride that wild stallion of a toddler into Christmas alone.  In that case, I wish you luck, Kemosabe, but don’t take a knife to a gun fight.

I’ve decided that next year Narco will come out on the day I hear my first Christmas song whilst out in public- probably around November 20th.

The Destroddler may not like him, but Narco has power.  He has Santa’s ear.  He’ll drop a dime on her in a second if she’s naughty, so she’s been... really good.  And easy.  And lovely.

Oh man, I love you Narco.  You’re like a month long Christmas present.


That’s it for now.


Go “like” the Huttsez facebook page.


I’m on the twatter


Thanks for reading.  See you soon.




“...the unread voice of a generation.”



The Binky Fairy 11/13/13

So The Destroddler- AKA Obersturmführer Bällerinä, AKA my almost 4 year old daughter- has done it again.  She’s passed another milestone on her own and at the time of her choosing.  Just like when she toilet trained herself at the age of two- 

“I want to wear big girl knickers,” she announced one morning to an unsuspecting Mrs. Huttsez, “and I want to go in the big girl potty.”

And that was that.  One day she’s crapping her pants in toddler bliss, the next she’s wearing pink sparkly knickers with Unicorns on them and yelling “Mum wipe me!” from the bathroom.  She housebroke herself- we had very little to do with it.

We weren’t looking forward to the next milestone, however.

Because the next milestone for our little Obersturmführer Bällerinä was going to be the relinquishing of her binkies* to the Binky Fairy- a mystical being who takes the binkies from the big girls so that the new babies can have them, because big girls don’t need binkies anymore because they’re big.  Got it?

*Pacifiers, dummies.

Why were Mrs. H and I nervous about this?

Because The Destroddler is a binky addict.  A proper Pacifier Junkie.

She couldn’t sleep unless she had three binkies- one in her mouth, and one in each of her hands.  Woe be unto the parent who doth misplace a binkie, for The Destroddler shall cut a trench of fire and destruction through the valley of your once (hopefully) quiet evening. 

We would try and hold her binkies back until bedtime, but she would somehow appear with one or two at around 4:30.

Ummm, where did you get those binkies?”

“Out of Mum’s drawer.”  Great.

The missus and I decided that she would have to give them up when she turned 4- enough was enough- and agreed that we should prepare The Destroddler for the approaching visit from The Binky Fairy.

So, when you turn 4 in a few months, The Binky Fairy is going to come and get your binkies so she can give them to the little babies. Because you’ll be a big girl.  Plus she’ll bring you a present!  Ok?”

“Ok Dad.”

“And then you won’t have your binkies anymore.  Ok?”

“Ok Dad.”

Hmmm.  I was feeling fairly certain that things were not, in fact, going to be ok.  I was feeling fairly confident that my daughter wasn’t quite getting the finality of giving her binkies to the Binky fairy.  And that once they were gone, the withdrawal was going to be... harrowing.  Kind of like Gene Hackman in French Connection 2.

But all my worry was for nothing.

In classic, headstrong, and willful style The Destroddler has done it again. 

She woke up a few weeks ago and said-

“I’m ready to give my binkies to the binky fairy today.”

And that was that.

She gave one away for three days running until they were gone, getting little presents each day.  This is the little shrine/box she made-

"Now the Binky Fairy will know where to leave my presents" The Destroddler is very organized.

There were no spiders crawling all over her body.  No cold sweats and trembling.  She just... did it.  Crazy.

Sure, she has moments where she misses her binks and wishes she wasn’t such a big girl, but they pass.  I can imagine that she feels pretty good about doing it on her own when she chose to do it, and not because the parental units were making it happen.

She called the shots, not us.  Which is cool.  But a little scary.  But cool...

Sometimes, no matter the amount of parenting involved, kids just work things out on their own.  It’s what they do.  I think that we tend to underestimate our children’s ability to find their own way, which maybe isn’t so good, ya know?  

Because of this episode with The Destroddler, I’ve come to the conclusion that Modern Parenting has gone too far.  Too much micromanagement, not enough room for kids to grow.  Obersturmführer Bällerinä’s recent display of independence has solidified my thinking.  Look for a fairly ranty entry coming soon.  Soon being relative.  Brace yourselves for a bollocking, Modern Parents!  Avast!


That’s it for now.


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Thanks for reading.  See you soon.




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