Flexibility
No, I’m not talking about the ability to juggle your schedule to accommodate the ever-shifting financial and temporal needs of your child. I’m not referring to needing to adapt to how much pink the world contains. I’m talking about car seats and their installation. Their painful, Gitmo-inspired, Torquemada-invented installation.
You do want your child to be safe, right? Of course you do, because you imagine what life would be like if you have an accident and something happens to your kid. You know you would spend the rest of your life remembering how you stopped pulling on that strap just because your fingers were cramping up. Sure, that’s a good reason to risk your child’s life. Slacker.
Not wanting to live with this eternal guilt, you approach the installing the seat knowing that you will do what you must to complete the task properly. And then you realize that means standing on the car seat, putting your back against the roof of the car and pressing down, while simultaneously adjusting the straps to their maximum tightness and positioning them to fit within the specific three inches the manufacturer has designated. So you wedge your six feet of grown man into a three foot space and achieve these yogic positions for the better part of fifteen minutes because if you don’t: your kid will die.
Maybe this is all a ploy by the yoga-industrial complex to get more fathers involved. I’ve been to my fair share of yoga classes and enjoy a good stretch as much as the next guy, but just don’t ever let yourself dress like this yoga daddy. Really dude, you don’t need to wear the leggings and the beads. Especially the leggings.
