Songs They Play At a Kid's Skating Rink Birthday Party
Editor's Note: Shea Serrano is an award-winning music writer and goofball whose recent exploits include Bun B's Rap Coloring and Activity Book. In his column, he writes about his life and times.
Among many other things, my twin six-year-olds sons think I am Manu Ginobili when the Spurs play basketball on TV; the model for the Georges St-Pierre action figure, which we gave my wife for Christmas one year; Paco from Bloodsport; and the guy inside the blue Power Ranger costume. They think all of these things because I told them all of these things, because when you're a dad you can just lie about shit and your kids will believe you.
With tiny humans whose brains are nearly empty living in your house, you can be whomever you want. Did you know that I once got into a fistfight with Thor? Or that I taught the Pope how to pray? That I have the muscle density of a gorilla? Or did you know that I invented cars, and also lightning? Fact, fact, fact, fact and fact.
Lying is the tits for dads, man. You know what the trade off is, though? Motherfucking birthday parties.
The thing they don't tell you about being a dad is that you're gonna spend basically every day of every weekend of your dad life at some kid's birthday party because your kid got invited. At my house, every Thursday:
Son: Daddy, I got invited to a birthday party this weekend!
Son: It's for Terry.
Son: Terry. From my class.
Me: Terry? Oh, the boy with the dirty face. How's his face dirty at 7:30 a.m.?
Son: No! That's Terry R. This is Terry M. Can't you tell the difference?
Me: BITCH I CAN BARELY REMEMBER YOUR NAME.