Everyday stories of parental madness

The Family Guy
By Brett Buckner

It appears something of an introduction is in order, this being my maiden verbal voyage for The Post.

However, I will be voiding that awkward first-date summary of my life (Hi, my name is Brett, and I'm 35 years old. I'm on medication for OCD, afraid of spiders and I've never seen an entire James Bond movie). Sounds like something off the rejected pile from Match.com. Fortunately, I've married the one woman in the world who … well, better not get ahead of myself. You'll read about her soon enough.

For the purposes of this particular space, suffice it to say that I'm a parent and this is a humor column – as if those two things weren't Siamese twins, forever joined at the hip.

Being a parent, for all its blessings and cursing, is hilarious. Though it often takes many years' worth of perspective to truly appreciate the joke -- which is why grandparents are always smiling -- it'll be my job to provide that insight before Metamucil is on all our grocery shopping lists.

A dark, macabre transformation takes place among otherwise sane people after witnessing the so-called “miracle of birth.” And as a personal aside, if more curious teenagers were duct-taped to a La-Z-Boy and forced to watch said miracle in all its HDTV, Blu-Ray horror and glory, unprotected sex and teen pregnancy would go the way of polio as an American epidemic.

Fact is, after finding out where babies come from, they might never have sex again.

But I digress …

Something happens to otherwise normal people after they've conspired to bring a child into this world. We lose all sense of decency and public decorum.

Take me for example: I'm a college graduate, an accomplished, award-winning journalist who maintains his lawn, pays the bills on time and wears khaki pants with crisp pleats. I'm a grown-up. And yet I think nothing of standing in line at Wal-Mart and in the middle of a conversation with relative strangers, lift my precious baby out from the buggy, flip her over and sniff for a “poopy” diaper in front of God and the deli lady.

As if it weren't clear to everyone from the express lane to the bread aisle that something foul was lurking in those Huggies. Then, without skipping a beat, I will put the baby back in her seat and pick up the conversation right where I left off.

Funny thing is, it's the parents who pay no mind while the childless ones quietly skulk away like they've witnessed a car accident but are afraid to testify.

Scenes like that are the reasons teenagers hate their parents. They don't know exactly what you did, they can't remember it, but they know at one point in their formative years you humiliated them in public and no one came to the rescue.
Which is why, to save the $100-an-hour therapist couch fee, I shall rely on nicknames when conveying my everyday stories of parental madness. Plus kids love secret identities. I harbored fantasies of being a ninja into my 30s.

During this monthly journey of wit and wisdom, you'll hear a lot about The Diva. She's the pre-teen emotional tornado whose moods not even James Spann the Weather Man could properly forecast. Then there's Jellybean, the 14-month old poop machine who's turned “Uh-Oh!” into a formal threat. And of course, My Lovely Wife, who is the conscience and common sense of this motley crew.

Last, and certainly least, there's me. I was gonna go by my professional wrestling name – Shasta McNasty. But that career went the way of the ninja. Instead, I'll be the Constant Cleaner, for reasons that'll be painfully apparent soon enough.
Now that we've gotten to know each other, buckle your seatbelts.

Brett Buckner started writing friend's term papers back in junior high and hasn't stopped sense. He was the features writer for the Anniston Star for five years but after his wife took a better job in Columbus, Ga. has opted for the life of a freelance writer. When not chasing around his toddler or punishing his 12-year old daughter, Brett enjoys obsessing over his garden ... Yep, he's a gardener.