Dear Dad,

Thanks for making it so easy to hack your blog. It helps that you use the same password for everything, and that Mommy is a good co-conspirator.

I figured that, since you clearly aren’t using your blog, I would borrow it to air a few of my own grievances. Don’t worry—they’re not all about you.

In no particular order, here goes:

What was up with that swaddle blanket? I am SO happy that you and Mommy have finally given up on trying to swaddle me. How many weeks have I been breaking out of it as soon as you put me in my crib? And you should just come to terms with the fact that I’ll be sleeping on my stomach no matter what you would like me to do.

I’m tired of people trying to burp me. And feed me with a spoon. Just pour the food (formula, cereal, fruit, vegetable, whatever) into my mouth. No breaks—keep it coming. I am a hungry girl, and I need my food.

I don’t want to wear socks. I don’t know why people insist on putting socks on my feet, and those knee socks you made me wear were just ridiculous. Please accept the fact that I will rub my feet together until I have blisters. I am trying to make fire, and I have very little to work with.

I’m tired of being inside! Take me out on the weekends. If the weather isn’t nice enough to go to the park, I’ll settle for the mall. Sometimes there are boys in front of us in the line at Barnes & Noble. I do, however, prefer when you put me in the harness and we walk around outside.

I don’t want to see any more unflattering pictures of me. Sure, you take plenty of pictures of me smiling…but there are also pictures of my face while I’m crying…or going to the bathroom (I get it. I make a funny face. But would you like people taking pictures of you while you go to the bathroom? I think not.) Keep it up, and see what happens.

All those things being said, I have to admit that you and Mommy are doing an OK job, and you’re a pretty cool dad. You do funny voices for me, you let me wipe my nose on your shirt, and seeing your reaction when you have to change one of my dirty diapers makes me laugh. Thanks for all you do for me.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!

Given the tone of this blog, it seems incumbent upon your author to take part in the traditional airing of grievances. Accordingly, here are my grievances:

F*ckin’ Parsley – I like Italian restaurants. I like Italian food. I don’t like the ubiquitous practice of dusting every plate of food with dry parsley. It contributes nothing to the meal. If it’s an ingredient in the dish, put it in or on the food. If it is supposed to be part of the grand presentation of the food, stop it.

The Twilight of Harry Potter – Hey, remember when adults used to read books that were written at more than a 7th grade level? Me too. I miss it. Special note to the ladies: It’s super creepy that you are infatuated with the sparkly, hairless lads in the Twilight movies.

The Shopping Dead – I often joke with my wife that I become invisible when walking through any shopping mall. I say this because every asshole and their cousin walks directly at me. In the interest of saving civilization, can we set some ground rules for walking in a mall or any other high-traffic area (e.g. concourse of sports stadiums, airports, boardwalks, zombie apocalypses, etc.)?

• Rule #1 – Watch where you are going. I know that the alpaca fur kiosk is absolutely fascinating, but occasionally peek your head up and look at what lies ahead.
• Rule #2 – Pull over before stopping. It is not reasonable to stop in the middle  of everything and block the ingress and egress of every other pedestrian while you make a decision.
• Rule #3 – Walk with purpose and speed. Please stop stumbling and staggering about like only your brain stem is still functioning.
• Rule #4 – Everyone is allowed to hip-check any little kid zipping around on those sneakers with wheels.

You wanted a Diet Coke — right, Fatty? – Look. I get it. I am carrying a bit more weight than is required for my frame. But I want what I want. And what I want to drink at a restaurant if I’m not indulging in an adult beverage is a regular Coke or Pepsi. Why is it that I have the following exchange with every member of the food service industry:

Waiter/Waitress: What can I get you to drink?

Me: Coke

Waiter/Waitress: Diet Coke.

Me: Coke

Waiter/Waitress: Are you sure, Tubby?

Me: Yes. I’m sure.

Waiter/Waitress: OK, but if we have to butter you up to get you out the front door again, I expect a decent tip.

[OK. I might be projecting that last bit.]

As a people, we are boring. We have nothing much of interest to say to one another. How do I know? Because I have had the same conversation easily 100 times in the last 6 months (without noticeable variation).

My wife is pregnant. This means that just about every conversation I have lately consists of the following:

You: Exciting news!

Me: Yes. We’re very excited.

You: Do you know what you’re having.

Me: A baby, I think. No. I’m kidding. It’s a girl.

You: She’ll have you wrapped around her finger.

Me: That’s what I’m told.

You: When is the due date?

Me: December 26th.

You: Ooooo! A Christmas baby. My [insert relative] was born in December. Make sure you keep her birthday separate.

Me: Yes. We will.

You: Enjoy it while you can. They grow up so fast.

Me: Yes. We will.

You: How is Jen feeling?

Me: Like there’s a tiny goblin inside of her trying to claw its way out.

I’m thinking of printing out cards with an FAQ on it, so I can skip this. Don’t get me wrong. I am happy that everyone is so supportive. It’s great. I just don’t think I can have this conversation again.

I just loath “canned” conversation – those conversations that we are apparently hard-wired to have in specific situations. We all do it. Just think how many times you’ve had to  discuss the weather in an elevator. Oh, is it hot in July? Cold in December? No shit.

Please, let’s all make a concerted effort to either think of something substantial to say or just shut the fuck up. Deal?