Yeah. That’s how the get you. Babies are a racket, and don’t let anyone tell you differently. Sure, they bring joy, purpose and meaning. You meet them and can’t imagine your life without them. And this makes you ignore one enormous fact: Kids are douchey little terrorists.
The other day, my almost two year-old niece walked up to my sister took her by the hand and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. It’s okay.” She led her to the living room and said, “Had accident.” (When a two year old walks up to you and tells you “It’s okay,” recognize that these words are LIES! It’s never okay. Not ever.) My sister got to her living room and discovered she was late for the oatmeal finger painting hour. Then she gave her the puppy dog eyes and said, “But I sowwy.”
When I was nine, ten years and five kids into the game, my mom lost her shit. There was screaming, things flying across the room and jumping up and down. We all stood there incredulous, thinking, “This batty broad is headed straight for the boobie hatch.” Now that I am a parent of only two of my own, thirteen years in the game, I look back with another type of incredulity: Mama, what the hell took you so long?! Not long after her freak out, she began to channel her frustrations into writing. She wrote a classic poem in our household, “When You Grow Up and Move Away.” I can’t remember the entire poem, but it began something like this:
When you grow up and move away, we’ll visit for a spell
We’re proud of our dear children, we so want to wish you well
Then, this lady proceeded to detail, and a two page poem, how she and the fanny packer would go in cahoots with our future children and dismantle our entire program. She not only described things we had done (such as remove every inch of the tape which operated our burglar alarm system) and killing our friends pets (it was a hamster, and I was only trying to make it smell better); but she upped the ante. I don’t think we ever swung from the curtain rods like Tarzan, and we never broke a window. Who does that? Who plots on their poor little darlings?
I’ll tell you who: a parent on the edge. And yes, a revolutionary.
It’s time that we rise up against these ankle biting gremlins and reclaim our insanity! Remind these interlopers that we run this. Stop letting them win at games. Once they turn eight, they’re going to beat you at everything anyway. You’re preparing them for the future. Don’t be gracious about it either. “BOOM! LOST AGAIN! It hurts, don’t it? It HURTS!” “You ain’t learn yet? I’ve beat you the same way eighteen times son! Do you know what Plato says about that? HA! Of course you don’t, because you can’t READ!!!!! If you could, you’d know that Plato doesn’t talk about Xbox at all! This bores me. Change the channel on the way out.”
But we’re just getting started. Did they get down on the floor and throw a tantrum? You get right down on the floor with them and start kicking and screaming. Are they in the room minding their business? Walk into the room and spill your coffee all over their favorite doll. Yeah Dora the Explorer. Fuck you. You shouldn’t be running around with a monkey in the woods anyway. Lil Man is chomping at the bit to see Fresh Beat Band? Go right ahead and get the bubble guts 10 minutes after you were supposed to leave. Of course, you’re 10 minutes behind schedule because you smeared chocolate on the shirt you were going to wear. Kiki will just have to wait.
Game on younglings. I’ve been making folks cry since the 70s. Your arms are too short.