Hate to admit this, but I don’t really feel like attending the Johnny Appleseed Celebration and Birthday at my son’s school today.
Does that make me a dick? A bad parent? Perhaps. But it also makes me an honest one. I have tons and tons of work to do. I’m transcribing the never-ending interview. My book deadline is creeping up, I’m away part of next week.
I know kids are cute. I know my son is cute. I love the boy as much as anything in the world. I mean that. But my kids are 11 and 8, meaning I’ve attended, oh, 765,765 similar events. Class, sit down. Class, behave. Today, we’re going to talk about [X]. Class, let’s …
Oy.
And yet … I have no choice. None. I’m overwhelmed, but I’m not heartless. The idea of my son sitting there alone, one of three or four kids without parental representation … well, no. No, no, no. Can’t do.
So I’m going to hear all about Johnny Motherfuckin’ Appleseed.
Expect a full report.
