During all my years of teen rebellion and throughout the time where I would have been considered “of college age”- I went to a grand total of ONE frat party. Just one.
One experience with wall-to-wall dudes who thought the idea of a good time was getting absolutely shithoused by doing keg stand after keg stand and the constant fear of being rufeed (even if I know that does not happen at EVERY house party, I was young and frightened for my innocent little life)- was way more than enough for me.
I praised myself for growing out of that age unscathed by the horror that is a sausage fest (even if at the time it seems fun to be the center of attention. I knew as that stupidity passed that I was smart to stay away) unscathed. Yay me! I avoided the shit you see in Lifetime Movies on a Sunday Afternoon! I did one thing right in my stupid I-think-i’m-so-bad-ass phase!
….. And then I became a parent, and much to my shock and dismay, I was suddenly introduced to the fraternity lifestyle I had worked so hard to avoid without any damn warning.
Not just because my kids are of the male gender- but because ALL kids are the miniature equivalent of a drunken douchey frat boy.
They start out with that ‘i’ve had way too much to drink’ sideways stumble, Frankenstein arms extending outward for balance because there is no such thing as equilibrium in their worlds, slurring of speech and excess of drool and the inability to contain bladders and sometimes… ugh… bowels.
Most of them have a strong affinity for boobs, and it doesn’t matter whose boobs as long as they are of the boob family.
You will find plastic cups of all shapes and sizes and unknown beverages strewn about the house, under chairs, in closets… no fucking clue how long they’ve been there.
You will deal with sudden extreme anger, and unexplained crying and blubbering and no way to make out any of the freaking words making it impossible to stop. They always think they’re better’n you and have no problem expressing THAT, though.
And IF you fall asleep first… they WILL FUCK WITH YOU. Guaranteed. Children may not be coordinated or filthy enough to draw a penis on your face in sharpie, but they’ll take that sharpie and rub it all over your nice white walls- which of those do you think is worse?
The most troublesome of all of these identical traits, in my humble opinion anyways, is waking up with a bed full of people and having no idea when or how they got there- and later on finding junk in your bed that has NO USE being in a bed, and you’re left puzzled and wondering nothing more than “WHY???”
Allow me to make a list to you of things I have found in my bed since gracing this planet with my most excellent offspring (and these are just the ones I can list off the top of my head):
Sand (and no, I do not live close enough to a beach for that to be normal)
Strands of hair from unidentifiable sources
plastic power tools
stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes
crusty stinky pillows
remnants of tiny toes and fingernails
the sad and distant memory of sleeping in a non-communal bed.
I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps I should have had the forethought to prepare myself for this disgusting venture into parenthood by taking a titanium chastity belt and gone to war with the smorgasbord of sausage that lie behind the walls of fraternity row. At least then I wouldn’t be fazed by the burpfartsnotdroolwhineshartasshole-ness that goes on in this house on a daily basis. At the same time, I might not have made it out of my teens without a baby.
It’s probably for the best.
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