The Best Part of Parenting: 13 Inches of Joy

If you listen to all the parenting magazines, books, blogs and gurus shouting from their rooftops about the joys of parenting, you may start believing that the single greatest part of parenting is the divine love our offspring showers us with for all of eternity.

The self-imposed authorities of all things parent related are, of course, wrong.

Don't misunderstand, the unending love and devotion from our children is pretty darn sweet. As are the pockets of bliss and laughter and the intense feelings of wonder we get to experience as we raise our wee ones.

But it's not the best part of parenting.

No, the best part of parenting is when we get to relive our own childhood as we guide our kid's through their 'hoods. Preferably while sitting on a ridiculously giant overstuffed brown couch that resembles a Godzilla turd while stuffing your face with sugar cereal straight out of the box alongside your kids.

Of course, this is just my opinion and you'll notice no one is beating down my door offering to pay me for my parenting guru skills.


The best part of parenting is the sweet freedom to abandon our adult confines and romp merrily alongside our children in their world. For some that means video games, for others it means Barbies and tea parties. Some revert to their Lego loving ways and others make it their mission in life to prove to their children that they really were the best darn hoola hoop spinner around. (I really was. I swear.)

Whatever your childhood vice once was, the moment you have smalls under your roof, you can welcome it back into your life with gleeful abandon. There is no shame attached to being a middle aged grown up playing with dinky cars or building sand castles when you do it alongside your child. What would mark you as an emotionally stunted adult if you were to do it alone is now suddenly your free pass to good parenting.

Add in a few fart jokes and the ability to belch out the alphabet and you have just earned the 'Coolest Parent Ever' award in your child's eyes. Bonus points if you can keep a straight face when your son uses a tampon applicator for a kazoo.

I admit, I've enjoyed the sweet thrill of watching endless cartoons back to back with my children. I've played more now as an adult than I ever did as a child and I think I've enjoyed my second childhood more than I did the original. (No offense Mom and Dad. I just didn't know a good thing when I had it.)

It also helps that toys these days are just so much cooler. Back in my days, my parents would toss us outside and make us play with sticks. Our children don't know how good they have it when it comes to toys. Our idea of fun back when I was a kid was trying to put a doll dress on our family cat and carry him around inside a pillowcase. I still sport the scars from that particular day.

As adults we understand that stuffing a cat into a sack could be considered a life threatening activity. As a ten year old child, however, it was the height of excitement when your older brother had ripped the heads off all your Barbies and significantly diminished your toy count.

Of course, somethings never change. Children will still try to stuff cats into sacks no matter how many cool toys their parents bust their arses to pay for. As parents, it's our job to keep the cat and the kid safe, as well as to ensure there are appropriate play toys around.

And sword fighting with mommy's bedside toy does not count as an appropriate play toy.

Or so I'm told.

Apparently one of our duties as responsible adults is to ensure our children have appropriate play things. Which I may have forgotten when I was in the children's hospital waiting for Jumby to come out of surgery earlier this week.

After whining to the store attendant that it is really hard to find toys that Jumby can see (he's considered legally blind) or hold in his tightly fisted, basically thumbless hands (Cerebral Palsy stikes again!) or even understand (thank you Shaken baby Syndrome) the clerk nodded knowingly and then went into the back room and came out with a large box.

"We can't display these because of the packaging but we find they are great for kids and adults with sensory issues. The therapists like to use them up on our neuro ward," she explained as she set the box down.

Then she pulled out what can only be described as a big floppy penis. Or a cactus. Or a pickle. Or ear of corn. Whatever the toy is supposed to be it is definitely phallic.

I snickered and gasped with delight because hey! It's a giant floppy penis. "Do you have one in red or yellow? Those are the two colours he can actually see," I hurried to explain because I didn't want her to think I had something against purple or blue giant floppy penis toys.

As she rung the purchase up I examined the box containing my new favourite toy.

"You can pull it! Tug It! Squeeze it Hard!"

"It's Mommy's favorite toy!" (Yep, it said that.)

"Slap it around and have some FUN!"

I about died laughing as I forked out my 9.99 for Jumbster's newest toy.

I figured even if the kid didn't want to go near it, it was worth the ten bucks just for the giggles I got on what was turning out to be a soul crushing day.

As it turned out, Jumby loves his giant floppy penis. He won't let it go.

My older children, well they are horrified.

"Mom! It looks like a big ..." my daughter started to say.

"I know. I call him Dicky," I laughed as we watched Jumby pull on him.

"That is so gross," my son shuddered.

"Hey, don't knock it. You were the one blowing on a tampon applicator like a country singer wails on a harmonica, kiddo."

There are so many great things about parenting. But I just can't see how it gets any better than watching your child light up with glee when he waves his giant yellow Dicky in his siblings faces.

The best part about Dicky? Besides finally having a toy my son can engage with and bringing joy to both Jumby and me?

Knowing what his father's expression will be when he see it.


Life is short. Sometimes you just need to embrace the Dicky.

Oh Dicky, how I love how your head bulges when I squeeze you.