When I was 10 or so, I was furious that my dad had thrown out his entire collection of Mad magazines upon reaching adulthood. I was obsessed with it and mourned being unable to read back issues from the 60s and 70s.
Now that I reflect on what a crappy magazine it really was, I don't blame him. In fact, I think I threw out my collection too.
A couple relics from my childhood remain, but if my kid thinks she's getting them, then she's got another thing coming. My Legos are mine.
Did I say relic? I should clarify. My name is Dan, and I've sort of rediscovered Legos.
Hiiii Dan.
Shut up. They're vehicles, okay? Sweet vehicles. I can picture Julie tonight: "I thought I told you not to write anything embarrassing on that blog."
So anyway, today for some reason my brain is skipping over the next two trimesters of pregnancy, skipping all the diaper changing, skipping all the important moments like walking and talking, all the way to when our son or daughter turns to their mother and says, "Mommy, why won't Daddy let me play with his Legos?"
"Because he's a man-child, honey. Eat your peas."
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