Every day it’s the same. I have my coffee, then I make lunch while Parker works in his workbooks or talks to his stupid imaginary friend that I wish would die, and then we sit down and eat. And by “eat”, I mean I bug him to stop messing with shit I’ve told him NOT to bring to the table with him but he does anyway, and to stuff food in his mouth instead. I’m not complaining, not really. It’s our routine. I find comfort in our routine. Routine is just a part of parenthood- and without it, we parents learn that we pay DEARLY. So yes, routine became my friend over the years, even if I frequently lamented the monotony. That’s not what the title of this blog is about, though. That’s easy. A fucking CAKE WALK (though one might argue that walking on cakes ain’t so easy, but I digress).
We parents get used to an awful lot for the sake of our beloved crotchfruit. Some of it we’re warned about before they’re even born. The dirty diapers and projectile shits. The crying. OHHHHHH, the crying. The lack of sleep, constant state of worry, the urge to want to tear our hair out. Yeah, we knew it wasn’t exactly going to be easy, but obviously the human race hasn’t died off, so people have gotten through this shit before. Maybe not in one piece, but they got through it, and the world continued to spin. Totally doable!
It was during today’s lunch when it happened. It’s not anything new. It didn’t surprise, shock, or offend me, because it happens ALL the time.
You know those things I told Parker NOT to bring to the table and mess with instead of eating his lunch? Well, he dropped one onto the floor. He looked at me and very plainly said “Can you get that?”
“So? Can you get it?”
“No. You dropped it. YOU get it.”
“But I’m eating!”
And there it was. To him, his mealtime is far superior to mine. More important. My hunger and getting life sustaining nutrients into my body meant nothing to him. I was not a person. I was not deserving of consideration. I was Mommy, and I was there to do for him.
When you become a parent, whether you like it or not, you sign up to be your kid’s bitch. Deny it all you want, but parenthood is the closest some of us will ever come to being someone’s bottom in prison. I guess that’s something to be thankful for…
No, it’s not a sign of disrespect. Think about it- you have made their food, washed them, cleaned them, wiped their frickin’ ass, and kissed their booboos for however long they’ve been on this earth- of COURSE they think they own you! Aaaaaand, they’re basically right.
Does this mean that we should always bend at their every whim? Uhhhhh, NO! If you think I got up from my seat and picked up a toy for Parker that he wasn’t even supposed to be playing with because I had accepted his hostile takeover and was now bowing to my evil crotchfruitian overlord- you are WRONG. I made HIM get it. And then I took it away. My time of being his bitch is coming to a close as he learns to function on his own and soon, he’ll be wiping his own ass and I’ll be crying about how I miss the days where he needed me to do everything for him.
Okay, not really. I’m still hoping to be let out on parole early for good behavior. Damnit. Okay. Maybe I WILL miss it just a little bit. A smidgen. Teeny tiny little itty bitty bit.
Enjoy your Prison Bitchhood. It will be over before you know it!
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