When you have children you take on many new obligations. Sure, some are big, like remembering to give them some crackers or something. But the little things are important too, like leaving a car window cracked for them when you stop at the bar on hot summer days. (Before you call Child Services, I'm kidding. I usually just park in the shade.)

But one obligation that sneaks up on you is little kid birthday parties. We had some kids, my wife made friends with other people that had kids, and now I have to go little kid birthday parties. I don't know exactly how that works, but for those of you who don't have children yet, remember this formula: PUTTING IT IN YOUR WIFE + TIME = YOU AT SOME RANDOM KID'S PARTY.

At a recent party, I was watching my little guy who isn't quite 2 yet, start to get into a big toy car - the kind you sit in and move around with your feet like Fred Flintstone. Then some bigger kid muscled my son out of the way and got in it. I looked around for the kid's parents to correct this atrocity of justice, but of course they were nowhere in sight. And I'm really not into explaining right and wrong to other people's kids. Partially because it's not my job, and mostly because it would involve human interaction.

I picked up my son and told him he could have his turn in a few minutes. He was fine with that. But as I walked away, I heard the kid who took the car start whining. I looked back to see he was slowly sliding through the Flinstone floorboard, his little legs getting stuck under the car.

HEE HEE HEE! Oh-- I mean, awww....

My wife found me at that point and saw the kid under the car. She told me to go help him, and being the nice guy I am, I did. I helped the little boy I didn't know, put my kid in the car, and helped myself to some shitty cake. Why? Because 2 1/2 years ago I put it in my wife.