Just The Notes

Parenting Notes #621-625

This week, the 6-year-old turns into Mr. Krabs, my current weekend parenting philosophy and one of the reasons I've stopped dating for the foreseeable future.

This week, the 6-year-old turns into Mr. Krabs, my current weekend parenting philosophy, and one of the reasons I’ve stopped dating for the foreseeable future.

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I eat when I’m stressed. The source of stress changes continuously. The food of choice to temporarily relieve the symptoms varies as well.

I eat when I’m bored. If I don’t have a task to occupy my mind or hands, I find myself staring into the fridge and cabinets looking for nothing but willing to eat everything.

I’m better at handling stress thanks to implementing various coping mechanisms which don’t involve a spoon, toppings, or a trip to 7-11.

I’ll sit down to write anything, pick up the guitar to clumsily strum through notes or go for a run even if I’ve already run that day.

I do the same things when I’m bored.

To figure out if I’m stressed, bored, or legitimately hungry, I remember a line my son told me that was said to him by his first-grade teacher.

The body can go almost a week without food. You haven’t eaten since breakfast. Its highly unlikely that you’re truly starving.

Another way to handle stress is to eliminate the recurring causes of anxiety. The persons, places, or things that bring on the worrying, the sleepless nights, and binging.

It’s the same thing I do to bags of chips and boxes of cereal when I’m ready to empty them into my mouth. I throw them into the garbage.

I understand that dumping the causes of stress is far more complicated than trashing relationships, friendships, or jobs, but the feeling is equally as satisfying. Plus they’re not around to tempt you into doing things you’ll regret.

You know what – or who – is provoking the pain. Eliminate it from your life.

Unless it’s your kids, you’re stuck with them for a while. In that case, I recommend either taking up running, meditation, or buying locks for your cabinets.



Whatever they want WITHIN REASON.

Dad, can I make slime?

Dad, can I shave half of my head to look like a supervillain?
Clippers are in the cabinet under the sink in the bathroom.

Dad, can I eat the rest of the burrito in the fridge?
Look, I love you, but now you’re asking for too god damn much.

A man only has so much to look forward to in his life, and sadly, leftovers are one of those things.



I’m not currently dating anyone, and have no interest in dating at the moment, but if I were, it’s one of the first questions Id ask a woman.

Ok, it would be the second question.

The first question would be, can you please tell me whats in the continue watching section of your Netflix account?



I’m not sure if the 6-year-old heard this on TV, YouTube or eavesdropping on a conversation.

I laughed, at first, because it’s a funny response from a kid her age.

But then I thought about it for a beat, and I told her the statement was slightly right but mostly wrong.

What I was thinking?

Money can equal freedom if you make enough to pay the bills with enough left over to save for the future and eventually do all the things she wants to do in life.

Just as long as she doesn’t spend her life trying to obtain money. Always pushing to earn the most is typically the most abundant ingredient in a recipe for overall unhappiness.

What did I tell her?

There’s more freedom in not caring about money.

She asked if $5 was enough to buy a container of slime.

I told her if we went to the dollar store, she could get five.

She smiled like she was the richest kid in the world.

“Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants.” – Epictetus


parenting note #625


I’m horrific at vegging out.

It could be the ADHD, the nagging feeling that another task needsĀ  completing, or that I’m just never entertained enough to sit and watch TV for extensive periods.

I never excelled at vegging out nor have I ever binged-watched a television show. Unless two half-hour episodes in a row are considered binge-watching, but that’s only an hour in total, and it’s doubtful that one hour is binging.

I’m not a binger, but I’m absolutely a purger. I could throw stuff away for hours.

If writing doesn’t pan out, I’m going to pursue a career in organizing. Seriously, just put me in a house and tell me to arrange a desk or closet.

I’m in heaven.

Figurative heaven.

If there’s literal heaven, I can’t imagine its an eternity of systematizing cabinets, cupboards, and chest of drawers.

That would be hell for most people.

Unless maybe that is hell for some. And perhaps for people like me, hell is a hoarder’s home, and I’m not allowed to arrange, trash or abolish a single item. Every book, bag, and dead cat must stay in place.


No, I’m not familiar with Marie Kondo. I know who she is, but I haven’t read the book or watched the Netflix show.

Again, I can’t sit still long enough to watch any show. Maybe I’ll put it on as background noise while I’m organizing your house.

I mean, do you need ALL these rubber bands? Do you plan on constructing a Guinness Record-level ball or imagine a scenario where all the money on Earth disappears, and people begin trading in elastic loops?

How much to straighten up the entire house, top to bottom? Seventy-five rubber bands? That seems a bit steep, don’t you think? It’s only a two-bedroom place.

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