I Would Be Ever So Grateful if You Stopped Hitting Your Brother with the Cat, Little Bobby.

Oh, I have much more to say about this article I read yesterday, I promise.

Until then, immerse yourself in the whinging, milquetoast, me-first, squishy crapulence in which the parents in the article wade and thank God that your parents didn’t need to call a “personal parent coach”.

(Oh, so much more to say. So, so much)

UPDATE: Yeah, the Times does that registration thing. Just go here and use a very nifty resource to not worry about that anymore.

UPDATE: I had originally intended to comment on the mind-numbingly wussified parents in the article who apparently are too full of their own self-worth to be in the same room with children much less raise any of their own. But that all seems painfully obvious from the article.

Another thought struck me this afternoon, though, on my way home from running a couple errands: where are the adult men? Where is the father of these children, or a step-father, or some adult male who cares enogh about the kids to play and roughhouse and teach them what it means to be a man in today’s world?

Instead, these poor little boys have to be lectured about their Mom’s stress level and how she just can’t deal with them. The mother in question here has nobly found the courage to tell her boys that she just won’t do boy stuff with them and, for her, that’s a wonderful answer. She doesn’t want to read Captain Underpants and now she doesn’t have to because she’s all full of store-bought self-worth. Congratulations. But what about her son who, believe it or not, needs someone to read Captain Underpants to him and needs someone to play football with him and to roughhouse with him and to teach him how to be both a big old rough-tough and a gentle person at the same time. Does he matter?

Apparently not one bit to Mom. She can solve her problems by finding a proxy mother who is more than happy to take her money and tell her the kind of things that she ought to know herself, if her head wasn’t so far up her own ego. She hasn’t even figured out that what her son really needs is a male who cares enough about him to play and get dirty and teach him how a man is supposed to behave. I’m not advocating that she go out and corral some hapless dude into a relationship just to give her son a father figure. I am saying, though, that unless she lives in a cave, there’s a man somewhere in her life that she trusts to be around her son every now and then. If she doesn’t, then she needs to find one. It’s important.

Shame on her and same on the people who enable her simpering, boy-destroying behavior because they lack the courage to say “You have a son now go be a mother to him. That’ll be fifty bucks”.

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Category: Pop Culture