Our Philips LCD TV was only eight years young and its warmth would light up a room. It gave us incredible memories – like the time that one show was on. Or that other time when that other show was on. And probably reality television. And video games. All of the video games.
Philip the TV had more life to give. But that life was cut short Saturday night, murdered. And the murderer was my son.
Good times at Fire Base Charmin.
This is admittedly weird: I feel actual guilt over the fact that I can’t draw my son a daily picture for his lunch. What?
I totally do. But I’m here to say that I’m becoming okay with it. And if you’re struggling with a similar emotion, I want you to feel okay and that your ability as a dad isn’t being judged because you aren’t drawing Superman for your kid every day.