Michael Julianelle

In the six short years of his life, my son has discovered many new things. From the taste of an iPhone to the joy of farting and from the delightful sound a messy belly-based raspberry makes to the ear-piercing “welp!” a knee to Daddy’s crotch can elicit, the early years of a child’s life are full of amazing new discoveries. Some of which are innocent and fun, others of which portend a forthcoming decade-plus of agita and frustration for parents.

If you’ve read this blog before, you’re probably no stranger to my anxiety as a parent. If you are a parent, you’re probably no stranger to it either. Parenting makes paranoids out of all of us. In the past I’ve written about the general stresses of the gig, and I’ve occasionally focused on my fear over my own shortcomings, and how they might affect my kids. lately, I’ve been less concerned about how my parenting might eventually ruin my children, and more worried that it already has.

When your child is sick, it’s dote city: Everything they need, anything they ask; you’ll do whatever it takes to comfort him and make him feel better. No ice cream before dinner? NOT TODAY. Don’t usually allow TV during the day? OUT THE WINDOW. Lollipops aren’t good for you? WHO CARES! Unfortunately, when you’re sick, such compassion is rarely returned. My son is only two years old.