If there is ONE thing that I hate (and I don’t like using that word)- it’s parenting advice. I hate it so much I’ve written a series of blogs on why you should not go around spewing parenting advice at people, even when they maybe might be asking for it. The first thing I do when someone gives me advice about my kids that I didn’t ask for? I ignore it. Call it closed-minded, call it immature, call it whatever you want- I call it “no one fucking asked you!”
So, maybe that’s a little mean. I can live with that. It just gets overwhelming after the fifth year of getting bombarded by re-used greeting card sentiments, “sage” wisdom, and stupid sayings that don’t make much sense to begin with, but even less when applied to parenthood.
NO, I DON’T WANT TO ENJOY THIS AGE WHILE IT’S HERE AND I’M QUITE POSITIVE I WON’T MISS IT WHEN THEY GET OLDER, THANK YOU!
I know people always mean well, but man, if my kid is being a shithole, just let me say they’re being a shithole. Telling me I’ll miss this age when they get older doesn’t do anything but make me feel like a piece of shit for thinking they’re a shithole.
To this day, I still feel that way, but it’s like something inside of me flipped on like a switch. I don’t know who the fuck flipped it, but trust me when I say that if I ever find out they’re getting a kick square to the throat even if it makes my stupid thighs hurt for a week afterward.
I can’t quite put a finger on what it is… It’s not sentimentality, that broke once my uterus became occupied for the first time and I cried at an episode of FUTURAMA, of all things to cry it. It’s not love. I’m cynical, but I was never cynical enough to say that love was nothing more than a chemical reaction in the brain (even if that might be true). It’s not even sentimentality. I realized my stronghold against that had been destroyed when I noticed the baby clothes I refuse to get rid of were nearing hoarder status. It wasn’t even when I heard “Son of a Biscuit!” come rolling out of my mouth instead of my much-loved “Son of a Bitch!”
Is it just… age? Insanity? Have all the rotten Cheerios I’ve scraped from the kitchen table with a knife after they’ve turned to fucking cement FINALLY gotten to me?
That damn mystery switch got flipped and I found myself giving all of my friends and families just now having their first babies the good ol’ “You got this!” and “Oh, they grow up so fast!” and the urge to kick myself in the throat was so strong I’d have done if it I were still that flexible.
What. The. Hell??? Who broke me?!
As my kids sit in the kitchen right as I am putting this blog together, playing a board game with the age set at 6+, and not asking for me for help with rules or reading the cards they pull, I think it’s just reality. REALITY. Why’s reality gotta be such a serious bitch all the time?
Reality turned ME into the Annoying Saying Sayer. SAY IT AIN’T SO!
I feel like I’ve been brainwashed. What is this? Where am I?? What year is it??
Cherish your kids while they’re young!
They grow up too fast!
Don’t worry about it! It’ll come to you naturally- blaaaaarrrghhhh that shit isn’t even true! I’m done for!
Come to the dark side- we really DO have cookies!
But, if you’re wondering- I still don’t miss all the “it”s I was told I’d miss. Take THAT, Saying Sayers!!!
Person on tv: Age is just a number! 10yo: Yeah, a number that pulls you closer to death.
Party animal over here pic.twitter.com/OVpKPuu4Yc
Proving to my kids that they ARE Friends goo.gl/fb/QbSSNp
Writing my next book Me: My period inspired a whole new chapter! Husband: Your lack of period inspired a whole book... Me: pic.twitter.com/fpNHwnYeAF
The card my kid made me at school. I truly don't know why I expected anything different 😂😂 pic.twitter.com/T7nai0ycqS
Valentine's Day before 4pm and I'm already putting on pajamas because my uterus is bloated to the size of a Buick and erupting like Mount Vesuvius so I guess you could say I'm feeling PRETTY romantic.