Nobody cares about your kid


I hate to be blunt, but nobody cares how cute your kid is. I have two—trust me. Nobody cares.


When my daughter Casey was, oh, 15-months-old, I could get her to recite most of Snoop and Dr. Dre’s // <![CDATA[// <![CDATA[
tf_sid = "PMMBs0005";
tf_artist = "Dr.Dre";
tf_song = "Nuthin But A "G" Thang";
// ]]>Nuthin’ But A “G” Thang. I thought it was the absolute cutest thing ever, and I probably had her perform the (clean) bit at least 200 times. In hindsight, I would like to apologize to all those forced to witness her saying, “Compton and Long Beach together, now you know you in trouble.” Because, while it might have been moderately endearing, it was obnoxious of me—the parent—to unleash it upon people who had more important things to do. Like shop. Or poop. Or eat corn.
Not that I was alone. Hell, I’ve rarely met a first-time parent who doesn’t push his/her child upon the masses; who doesn’t somehow swallow the my-child-is-amazing-and-he’ll-blow-you-away-with-this Kool Aid.

Casey, say “Chaka Kahn!”

Emmett, show them how you hold a football!

Juan, what’s two plus two!

Michael, do a Van Halen riff!

David, roll over like a dog! Now scratch yourself!

Now that I’ve got two, I can see clearly—nobody gives a s***. Hell, I sure don’t. I really don’t. I love the children of my friends and family members, and enjoy getting status updates, watching them grow, hearing how they’re progressing through life. But please, dear God, don’t do what I did and turn Junior into a show puppy. It’s embarrassing, ugly and universally dull. And later, when the show ends, nobody will remember your tyke’s uncanny ability to balance pretzels on her head. They’ll just remember that you’re a dolt.

So just chill, til the next episode.