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One of the difficult things about having older kids is the uncomfortable realization that the person you fiercely love with every molecule in your body is kind of an asshole.

See, this is different from when they were a toddler and constantly acted like an asshole, because even in the depths of dealing with an stage that’s basically like parenting a living Trump tweet there is a sane corner of your mind that remembers the asshole-ness isn’t their fault. They’re hungry, or tired, or the rapidly branching synapses in their brains have clanged into one another, or whatever. Your toddler may be screeching or throwing food or biting the soft underpart of your forearm with the jaw force of a lyssavirus-stricken raccoon but they’re simply not old enough to be an asshole.

It’s true that tweens are buffeted by even more savage developmental hurricanes, what with the hormones and emotional rollercoasters and emerging crises of self-identity and so on, but now they wear the same shoe size you do and so when a giant almost-teenager starts being shitty it doesn’t feel like a glitch in the system, it feels like 100% authentic, grade-A assholism.

Tantruming is a thing of the past, but now I have to navigate contempt (“Right, like you would know”), exhausting arguments (“So you’re saying [insanely extreme thing I most definitely did NOT say]??? Well I guess you just want me to [bizarre example that in no way is ever going to happen]!!!”), and emotional manipulation (“You’re going to the gym? Oh. I just thought we were going to do something fun today *heavy sigh*”). It’s one thing to be faced with the unpleasant but involuntary reactions of a helpless child, it’s another to deal with the deliberate tactics of the ASSHOLE.

At our house, bouts of Extreme Asshole Behavior are thankfully brief so far, but when we’re in it I am not at all able to consider the many potential factors affecting his attitude, I’m too busy worrying that I have in fact raised a for-real and not-temporary asshole. Then I feel bad because I love this asshole so very, very much and sometimes when I look at him I still see the tiny baby he once was and so my reaction is sort of like:

Eventually, he always goes back to being the funny, loving, and all-around awesome kid he is. In most ways I feel like this whole parenting gig is a million times better than when they were little, but when things get tough it’s not about someone being a challenge or fussy or spirited, it’s a whole new world: Planet Asshole.

Writing more often is one of my goals for 2018, so if the (probably super temporarily? But no: thinking positive) increased post volume has you regretting signing up for notifications, you can always unsubscribe at the bottom of this page. Also, if you’ve recently experienced weird malware warnings from this site, I’m so sorry! I don’t know why that keeps happening, but I am grateful for a very smart and patient friend who keeps fixing it for me.

So, we are taking the boys to Vegas in a couple weeks, which definitely seems like a good way to not enjoy the best parts of Vegas. (Goodbye Japanese-Peruvian fusion cuisine, hello Cheesecake Factory!) I’m thinking we’ll try and hit up some things like the roller coaster at New York New York, the Mandalay shark reef, that giant Ferris Wheel … I don’t know, maybe swing by Fremont Street and show the kids where Daddy once bought Mommy a legit megahot lap dance? Or, well, maybe that cheesy-looking Midway carnival at Circus Circus.

Really we just booked it because John already had a hotel room for a weeklong conference, so it seemed like a relatively affordable getaway during a dreary time of year. The four of us will head there together on a Sunday, then I’ll take the boys home Tuesday morning.

It’s weird, I had a brief moment of uncertainty over the prospect of flying alone with the kids, before remembering that the odds of anyone shrieking for hours at a time or loudly squirting a noxious load of liquid waste into their pants are pretty low, and if such a thing did happen I would surely have a bigger problem on my hands than disturbing a fellow coach passenger.

The last time I was truly freaked about being on a plane with a kid was back in 2009, when I took Riley to Washington D.C. I’m so glad I documented it, because now I can remember little details I absolutely would have forgotten, and marvel at how long ago that seems. Aw, back when Riley was so little! Aw, back when brands were doing crazy things like sending no-name bloggers across the country for basically zero return on investment!

Anyway, Dylan in particular is losing his mind with excitement about our upcoming trip. “Will we see the actual Las Vegas strip?” he asked, in the sort of awestruck tone normally reserved for moon landings. “Do we get to drive right down it?” Oh man, wait until he sees that there are LIVE PIRATES. Also, lots of boobs.

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