Adam Carolla - Daddy, Stop Talking! - And Other Things My Kids Want but Won't Be Getting

And that’s the lesson for all you parents reading this. If you’re reading this book while your kid is on the field playing football, put it down and watch them play. Being a parent is about putting your shit on hold. You’d like to buy a recliner; instead, you’re buying car seats. You’d like to drive a two-door convertible; instead you’re driving a minivan. You’d like to take a Hawaiian vacation; instead, you’re saving it for private school. There’s a monetary sacrifice, but there’s also a personal one. You’d like to just plop down in front of the television when you get home exhausted, but your kids want to see you, so you better get down on the floor and build that Lego castle. The more you’re into you, the worse the parent you are. We always think about the parents who are physically violent or alcoholic. You show me someone who is narcissistic and self-absorbed, and I’ll show you a miserable kid. That’s why no one should have kids at seventeen. You don’t give a shit about anybody but yourself at that age. And for the next eighteen years of that kid’s life, you’re going to have to do a lot of shit you don’t want to do. That’s what being a parent is. You’ll want to see No Country for Old Men but instead you’re going to A Dolphin Tale 2 . And guess who ends up paying.

But, you know what, it’s worth it. You might be miserable spending time and money on shit you don’t want to do but in the end it buys you something more valuable, a relationship with your kids. When you don’t show an interest in their interests, can’t feel or at least feign joy when you’re around them, when you make life with them seem like a chore, you pretty much guarantee that they’ll resent you. And, if you’re really unlucky, you run the risk of them writing their fourth book containing tales of your half- and, occasionally, quarter-assed parenting. I guess Sonny and Natalia should be grateful their paternal grandparents were such turds. Without them, I’d have a lot less vitriol to power my podcast and thus fill the family coffers. And I wouldn’t have such a clear roadmap of what not to do as a parent. And I pass that roadmap on to you, dear readers. Let my pain be your gain.

HERE’S SOME ADVICEfor my kids that I think all of you parents can give your own children on the other big purchase of their lives: their first house. If you don’t think that buying a house is the greatest symbol of achieving the American dream, then put down this book and move to Russia.

Dear Sonny and Natalia,

One thing that I have attempted to beat into you, and I hope I was successful, is that you should be owners, not renters. Owning a home is a good investment, there are tax benefits, it will fill you with pride, it will force you to become handy and make you get your financial shit together. And you won’t have to deal with douchebag landlords.

But here’s a fair warning. Owning a house will turn you into an asshole. Your mother says that’s when I became one. Pretty much since the day we met, we have had a constant running dialogue about me being an asshole, but when you were eight we finally nailed down the point of no return, the moment when I made the final conversion to full assholedom. She said it was when I was thirty-four, and I bought my first house.

Nine out of ten asshole-ish behaviors are connected to your home. You have to yell at the gardener for leaving the pool gate open for the thousandth time, you have to yell at your kids for scratching up the hardwood floor and you have to scream at your wife, “I’m asking you to call the carpet guy, not clean the carpet yourself!” I think when you sign the deed to your house, the realtor should present you with the keys, and a brown blazer with a toilet paper roll embroidered on the lapel and say “Congratulations, you’re now officially an asshole.”

When you’re renting, you don’t give a shit about your domicile. It’s temporary. If your friend drops a bowl of salsa on the carpet you’re pissed, but not irate. You know that eventually you’ll just move out and move on to another rental. When it’s your home, that means you own said carpet and can do math on how much you paid for it and how many more hours you’re going to need to work to replace it. So, Sonny and Natalia, get ready to become assholes just like your old man.

But I’d rather you be assholes than losers. The renters reading this are now pissed, but please, take it as motivation and coming from one who knows of the loserdom whence he speaks. My history with home-owning and shitty apartments is well detailed in my second book, so check it out if you haven’t, and you’ll see that I speak purely out of experience and concern. I was pathetic back when I rented. Here’s a great way to tell if you’re a loser who needs to step it up in the life department and get yourself into a home of your own: When you are asked to house-sit for a friend who does have their shit together are you excited? Can you not wait to get out of your squalid shitbox? Do you want to squat in that home and change the locks so that your friend can’t ever get in again? Then you’re a loser, and need to figure it out.

I used to be that guy. I house-sat for a friend once and was far too excited. It was a two-bedroom with no pool in a dumpy part of Los Angeles, Van Nuys to be exact, but it was far superior to the crappy apartment I was renting with a couple of other losers. When that house-sitting run was done, I was deflated to go back to my apartment.

Between the time you were born and when I’m writing this, we moved. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if, by the time you read this, we will have moved again. Anyway, a few years after you came along, we moved from the hills of Hollywood to La Cañada. Your mother and I decided that, among many other reasons to get outside of Los Angeles proper, we wanted you to have a place to ride bikes and a real backyard to do cartwheels and throw a football around in. That place was great. But, less than ten months after we moved there, into this great house with a tire swing and zip line, Natalia, you announced that you wanted to step it up and live in a place like Uncle Jimmy. So forgive me if I assume by the time you’re reading this letter that we’ve moved one or two more times due to your unreasonable demands.

By the way, moving a lot as a kid is another in my long line of rich man, poor man examples: things the very rich and the very poor have in common that people in the middle class don’t share. When you’re super rich you move a lot, constantly stepping it up or moving when business requires. When you’re super poor you’re constantly on the lam or getting evicted. The middle class just buy a two-bedroom, ranch-style house in the burbs and wait to die in it.

Closely connected to that is living in the same house as your grandparents. (Though credit where it’s due, one of my listeners came up with this one.) The really rich live in the manor that has been in their family since the Civil War, and the really poor are sharing a doublewide with Granny, Mama, Mama’s third boyfriend in as many months and their six brothers and sisters.

So, with all of this in mind, what should you be looking for in your first, and hopefully last, house?

Space: Famous racecar driver/builder Carroll Shelby once said that, when it comes to winning races, there’s no substitute for cubic inches. And not-so-famous driver/builder, me, once said when it comes to relationships there is no substitute for square footage. When you and your spouse are literally up each other’s ass because you don’t have a big enough place, it’s going to cause marital strife. The bright side of this is that when you inevitably get divorced you won’t have much property to fight over.