Mental Fiction

Being a parent is a funny thing. This weekend, I was sitting at home in the anarchy that is fatherhood when I received a text message from my friends, “come to the concert! Bad Religion is playing. I need to borrow some of your tattoos! These girls here have more than I do and that sucks!”

Like salt in my wounds, “this is the first year we aren’t going man” as I build an epic magnet tile castle fit for a princess with my daughter.

“Come tomorrow! Blink is playing!” The words taunt me as they dance across my phone screen and like an abrupt car backfire, I’m startled by a fecal explosion behind me. Shots fired - my other daughter has detonated in her diaper.

“You can go.” My wife says. “I would” she adds. Is this a trap? Has her lack of sleep made her delirious? What are the repercussions of this decision? If there was a ‘Husband of the Year’ award - this would certainly knock me out of contention. 10 minutes ago she wanted to choke me for accidentally succumbing to a nap on the couch and now I can go to a concert without her or the kids? Wait, did she just say that she would go? Over my dead body. You aren’t leaving me in the trenches taking grenades while you mosh to nostalgic music and eat fried food!

Hypothetically, let’s say I do go - I’m sure I would have fun. I would have to downplay that fun when I got home of course. Especially when called to answer to my 2 year old daughter who wants to know why I couldn’t help her with the expansion on her magnet tile castle. How did she get so perceptive and inquisitive at such a young age? It’s a blessing and a curse.

Besides the guilt. The real struggle is having to put pants on. That’s one of the many perks of this parenting gig - pants are optional.

No concert for me this time. Call it crazy - but staying home, building a magnet tile castle with my favorite toddler architect, watching reruns of Food Network shows, and eating takeout sushi with my wife has become my mecca.

There will always be another concert. I could go, but I don’t want to.