Sunday, December 3, 2017

My Kids Make Me Reeeeaaally Fucking Nuts Sometimes

Like, a LOT of the time, truthfully. I’ve said this before, but I’m not really a “kid person.” If you've been reading O.H.M. since the beginning, you know this. 

Before Trump, I wrote a lot more about parenting. Now, I feel compelled to write about Trump so that either: (a) my kids know I want them to grow up in some semblance of a decent planet and democracy; or (b) if the shit hits the fan, they will have a contemporaneous Handmaid's Tale-style record of What the Fuck You Did to Us.

Anyway.

I’m not great at talking to kids, and large numbers of them in one place scare me. Of course, I would jump on a grenade for my kids and I love being with them. Which is weird, because the amount of love I have for them, and for being with them, is SO immensely out of proportion to the level of annoyance I feel toward them most of the time.

Like there is hardly a waking minute when Paige isn't talking or moving. From the minute she wakes up until the minute she goes to sleep, she's doing cartwheels, handstands, backbends, and talking. The talking. God, the talking. So. Much. Talking. It's like this: momcanidoanexperimentmomcanyoucomedownstairswithmemomisaackickedmemomcanwehavetheipadmom?!?!?!?!?

Then Isaac--whose weekend highlights included declaring "I love violent video games" and his first real black eye (errant baseball)--is somehow ALSO always talking, albeit slightly less, and it sounds kinda like this: momcanihaveabrownieforbreakfastmomcanihavetheipadmomcanyoucomedownstairsandplaybaseballwithmemomcanyoutexthenrysmommommomomomomomomomom?!?

It's just kind of a lot, is all I'm saying. No one ever tells you that when you have kids, you'll spend the first 18 months of their lives trying to make them talk and the next 18 years trying to get them to be quiet for one fucking second so I can THINK goddammit.

And after all that, you STILL have to ask them (without giving up the jig) how Barbie and Edward from Twilight ended up in a compromising position on the coffee table, and only after extensive grilling are you satisfied it was pure coincidence. But really. LOOK at the expression on Edward's face.




No one tells you any of this. It seems like for all of the parenting books out there, there's not a single one with the chapters "YOUR KIDS' VOICES ARE ANNOYING AF BUT DON'T FEEL BAD ABOUT IT" or "DON'T AUTOMATICALLY ASSUME THE WORST WHEN YOU FIND BARBIE GIVING KEN A BEEJ.”

Really, the world could be a lot more forthcoming with this info.




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