(A Cautionary Tale of Accidental Parenthood)
For those of you who don’t know, and honestly, how dare you not know, I am a father.
Yes. A real father.
Recently, I have been thrown headfirst into the treacherous, chaotic, emotionally manipulative world of fatherhood. And I didn’t even ask for it. There was no planning, no gender reveal party, no hand-stitched nursery with woodland creatures hand-painted on the walls.
Nope.
One day, I just woke up and there he was: Tater.
You know how they say storks deliver babies? I’m here to confirm that storks are real and they are savage. Mine didn’t even knock. Just dropkicked a lifeform onto my metaphorical doorstep and peaced out.
And you know what? I embraced it. I am what the parenting books call “extremely qualified due to vibes alone.”
Now, a quick detour into science, because I’m nothing if not educational:
In Tater Years™ (very similar to Dog Years, but slightly more existential), each day equals one full calendar year.
Blink? He’s in preschool.
Take a nap? He’s at prom.
Scroll Instagram? He’s moving out and asking you to co-sign a lease.
It’s been a journey. Here’s where we’re at:
- 7 Tater Years: Angsty kid. Likes dirt. Hates rules. I respect that.
- 14 Tater Years: Hormonal sprout. Starting to rebel. Listening to punk rock. Got a nose piercing (don’t ask).
But if you think this is where the story ends, you’d be hilariously wrong. Because someday, and mark my words, this will be the story my (very real, very human) wife and kids will hear:
“You see, kids…”
It all started with a stranger.
Just a quiet handoff. A forgotten sprout. No bigger than a thumb. I didn’t ask for him. Didn’t even want him.
Left him in the garage for a while, sandwiched between an old toolbox and some questionable holiday decorations, you know, like most miracles.
But something called to me. A whisper from the cosmos, probably. So I gave him a name.
Tater.
That was the beginning.
We didn’t have the best conditions. A rusty pot. A shady balcony. Soil that could generously be described as “dirt-adjacent.” But Tater?
Tater had heart. He clawed his way skyward like he had places to be.
Every time I thought he was done, he grew more.
First, I bought him a hanging planter.
Then a bigger one.
Then, because he clearly had ambitions, a fully integrated hydroponic support system that cost me two
paychecks and a small piece of my soul.
It became clear: Tater wasn’t just growing roots. He was growing a legacy.
Of course, there were hard times.
One summer storm nearly tore him apart.
A squirrel tried to bury a nut in his pot like it was free real estate.
But Tater? He adapted. He thrived. He evolved.
And one day… he bloomed.
Not just into any potato plant.
No.
Tater became a force of nature. His tubers fed the town.
His vines shaded the neighbors.
His story reminded people that sometimes the smallest, most pathetic things turn into legends, if someone’s just dumb enough to believe in them.
And so now, every time you stuff your face with French fries, mashed potatoes, tater tots, or those crispy hashbrowns you drunkenly inhale at 2 AM?
Remember this:
It all started with a forgotten sprout… and someone reckless enough to love it anyway.
That’s the legend of Tater the Great.
Now eat your dinner and be grateful.