I got my toddler off of binkies lately. It took an hour. A tense fucking hour. Previously, he was generally Binked Out and learned to talk through these things. But then he kept biting them apart. And he has expensive binky taste. So I reasoned with him:
Me: Dude. The binkies are gone. But now you can have food and crayons, and I won’t lock you in the bathroom in the dark.
Him: Fuck you, Daddy. Gimme. Iwantmybinky!
Me: No. Pay attention.
Me: Hey! Listen to Daddy!
Him: Fuck you, awhol.
Me: What did you call me?
Him: Daddy, you listen!
Me: Okay, so the binkies are all gone. Sorry, dude. Blame Mommmy.
Now the binkies are gone, and he won’t. stop. talking. in the car.
First image: Pentel Sign Pen brush tip in Field Notes Snowblind edition.
Second image: Pentel Sign Pen and Forest Choice colored pencils in Kraft Field Notes.
I love my kids. I really do. I love how they like to read and color and sing and yell and laugh and generally raise hell and kick ass. I especially love when they wake up at the same time on weekends as we do during the week. Who needs the sun? Not me! Can they make Daddy some fucking coffee? Shit no!
I think it’s part of a larger conspiracy to make sure the family doesn’t grow. After all, badly rested parents can’t do that thing that makes more babies, right? Or, it’s
harder more difficult, at least.
(Mitsubishi Penmanship pencil, 4B, in some kind of Field Notes.)