Introduction to Death By Children

y name is Christopher Garlington and I write these stories so that when my head finally explodes, the authorities will have a ready explanation.

You’re probably a parent. If you aren’t then FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST DON’T READ THIS BLOG . . . if you intend to breed. The stories I’m going to tell will change your mind.

In that respect, this site is not really about the crazy stuff my kids do to try to fling me into cardiac arrest. It’s about parenting. It’s about how we really don’t grow up until we have kids-then we lord over them with our vast experience and wit until we finally feel superior to another seven year old and can get on with our truncated development.

My own childhood was fraught with ridiculous and harrowing acts of stupidity and I am lucky to be alive. There are countless moments when I unknowingly stared into death’s jaws; countless times when the probability of gaining the nickname “stumpy” was improbably high. There were concussions, live burials, forest fires, demolitions, and public nudity. I was morbidly obsessed with fire, electricity, poisonous snakes, fire, BB guns, power tools, wind-powered home-made go karts, and fire.

Yet I managed to make it into adulthood intact, trick a brilliant, hot scientist to marry me, and impregnate her.

When my daughter was born I sighed with relief: surely a girl won’t get into the tortuous predicaments I embraced as a boy.

What an idiot.

Shortly after that, my son showed up and I set out to mold him into a better version of myself.

What an idiot.

There are two mistakes I’ve made with my children. First, I’ve always told them the truth. No matter how uncomfortable, I vowed to always answer any question as honestly and fully as possible. In hindsight, I can see where I went wrong there.

a) Kids do not care what you think. If the words coming out of your mouth don't add up to food or television, their eyes will glaze over and they’ll start daydreaming about setting the curtains on fire.

b) Children are malicious, mean-spirited, cocky, impatient, and more often than not, smarter than their parents; they will see through your little hippy manifesto the third or fourth time you answer some dingbat question in detail; they will then confer with friends, abuse the library, and watch R rated movies when you aren’t looking; and they will lie in wait until the preacher comes over for a cup of coffee whereupon they will march into kitchen and announce, “My dad told me how to masturbate,” grab a cookie and leave.

Secondly, I told my children true stories about my childhood instead of making stuff up. I should’ve lied. I should’ve told them stories exemplifying courage, character, and leadership. Instead, I told them the truth. I told them stories about catching snakes, building swamp boats, chasing wild boars, setting things on fire, complex and nearly fatal pranks involving farm machinery, learning to drive, electric urine disasters, sneaking into government facilities, and smoking. And drinking. There might’ve been a few brief tales about carousing--I can’t remember them all.

Apparently, and someone could’ve told me this beforehand, kids take a lot of cues in their moral and critical thought development from—-this will blow your mind—their parents’ stories!

Consequently, Malcolm, down at poison control, knows me by name; there are paramedics who can point my son out in a crowd; and the guys at the bowling alley cheerfully (in unison) greet him as ‘Cheesefry!’

I’ve tried to fix it. The kids will say “tell me a story about your childhood, Dad” and I’ll launch into a hilarious tale about school safety preparation or emergency exits and they’ll throw the scissors at me and beat me with implements until I break down. Then I tell them.

I tell them everything.

So welcome. Welcome to my parenting disaster. As my son is still pretty young, I imagine I’ll have plenty to write about and, as I lived a totally immature life well into my 30s, there’s plenty of backstory to fill in on boring weeks when the kids make it through without breaking anything, getting arrested, or blowing themselves up.

In regards to the apparent vested interest I have in my children engaging in highly dangerous and potentially lethal activities:

a) My wife’s a lawyer;
b) Please see “Disclaimers.”

Yours truly