Sometimes, kids are weird little people. And of course, by sometimes I mean…well, ALL THE TIME. The Bug lives in a mixed up world, from my grown-up perspective. It’s a world where wiping your ass and doing your best to not dribble pee all over your clean underwear is just not a priority. A world in which eating sour cream as the main course for lunch is not only okay, it’s preferred. A weird weird world that tells him the living room floor is a trash can, the city pool is a toilet, and that vomiting (sour cream) on his bed is acceptable. All of this is why I’m so hesitate to take the little man out and about into the real world in which I live, where we grown ups understand that whipping out your peter (as he affectionately calls it) in the soup aisle at the grocery store is not going to help you make friends.

Despite this fear of being mortified in public my best friend and I have been taking The Bug out and about for the past few weekends. I won’t lie, it’s hard work. Convincing my kid that live, real, in the flesh, breathing elephants and monkeys and seals at the zoo are cooler than a $4 Pepsi is a losing battle. Should have seen that coming I suppose (but seriously readers, when is a fucking hippo TOTALLY IN YOUR FACE MAN! not cool as hell?!).

Overall the zoo was a bust. Not a total bust mind you, he did get to see all those animals he’s only thus far looked upon as drawn characters on PBS, but it was rough. There was the heat and the gajillllllllllion and a quarter people that decided that very day must have been the best ever to visit the zoo. There was me being totally annoyed that he did not seem to give a shit about the aardvark when we just drove two hours so that he could. Essentially, there was me being a grown up. And I think, as I look back on it now that maybe I was ruining it, instead of The Bug.

Before the zoo trip was yet another trip to one of our State Parks. Again, with the heat/humidity straight from the corridors of Hell, Midwest! I’m not sure we can be friends anymore, central US. Anyway, the trip was nice, just a short drive from home but if I remember correctly I chastised him in the Nature Museum for prodding a topographic map of the Park and on the way home it’s likely that we argued about going to Taco Bell instead of the awe-inspiring gloriousness that is McDonald’s to a kid. Again, me with the adult bullshit.

I remember all these outings and how taxing they were but when we get home and I really mull over what we did that day, I realize that the kid needs slack. Know why? He’s a kid! He doesn’t give a shit about the outrageous cost of admission, the ungodly heat index, or the fact that someone’s got to make dinner, clean, do 7 loads of laundry, and finally clean up sour cream vomit in his room when we get home, all while trying to find the motivation to put together some new bags and make a living.

I’ve been having trouble with inspiration lately. Trouble actually meaning the total inability to give much of a shit about anything but all this grown up junk clogging my brain. I feel like it’s totally possible I’m missing out on things with The Bug and just life in general and that if diagnosed with a debilitating mental disorder tomorrow (um, this is possible I think) that rendered me unable to enjoy anything at all, I’d hate myself because I wasted all this goodness. I’ve often commented that my brain just doesn’t work, that it’s nothing but 8 pounds (thank you little fellow from Jerry McGuire for that tidbit that has stuck with me for umpteen years) of heaviness giving me a neck ache for no good reason because it’s not helpful at all in my life. I’ve heard of Mommy Brain or Mommy Amnesia or whatever stupid phrase they’re calling it these days, which basically says that when you have a kid you lose, on average, 7 IQ points (look it up, scientist) and that your brain is just never the same. Yeah, thanks for that. Just what I needed. But that surely isn’t the cause for spells like this, those that make me see the beauty in fewer and fewer things and that tells me that making sure all the dishes are done is more important than catching The Bug in the act of literally talking out of his anus so that I may laugh hysterically for half an hour (at least). I feel grown up man, and that’s a bummer.

This isn’t meant to be a downer post, quite the opposite actually. Part of my reluctance to give up on this indie business that I run (aside from the amazing support I’m lucky enough to get from my friends and family) is because I don’t want a real job as society defines it. That’s grown up and it feels frighteningly final to me.

To the point: I’m too grown up lately. Farts are no longer funny. A blow up pool in the front yard is no longer the best thing that’s happened all damn week, for the moment. And this has to be effecting my inspiration, which is inevitably linked to my motivation and output. But this is surely an easy to remedy issue, and that’s comforting. Instead of spending so much time being grown up and annoyed that I have no desire to make anything, I should focus on…farts.

In conjunction with this post, I offer an apology. This is a craft blog of sorts and that content hasn’t been here for a while, if there was content here at all. I should be cranking out tutorials and projects and other random cool shit man, but I’m not. So to my seven readers, I hope you’re still here. I’ve publicly acknowledged my lameness and you can expect it remedied post haste. The only thing on the agenda today is a swim in the pool out front, a couple wrestling matches in the living room, and lots of just staring at my kid while he spins circles aimlessly. Because that shit is funny. And funny is always inspiring…

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