You know the old saying that we each are our own harshest critics? Well, it’s bullshit. At least in my house it is. It’s not that I’m especially easy on myself, but rather that the kids are constantly critiquing me. And they’re brutal.
It starts first thing in the morning. I’ll be innocently showering when a midget body will barge into the bathroom, and upon seeing my figure in the shower, run out screaming, like I have scarred him or her for life. It’s not uncommon for the child, whoever it is, to fall into a fit of giggles and call for his siblings. “Lily! Evan! Ben! Mommy is naaaaakkked. Come see!!” If I’m really lucky, all three will stand outside of the shower pointing and laughing like I’m a zoo animal taking a dump. “Ewwwwww” they shriek as I rinse out the conditioner, thinking that in the future 3AM showers would be a far wiser idea…
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For four years, Penelope was the center of my universe.
Had I never actually become a parent, I probably would have argued that a dog’s love was just as good as a child’s. Just as pure and as fulfilling and as gratifying.
Being a parent, I know that it doesn’t compare. It’s not even close.
But, it is a very special kind of love, one that I’m ashamed to say I took for granted once I was introduced to the other kind…
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There has been much preaching over the past few days about our right to express these less than admirable feelings about our children. How dare we!? How will they feel in five or ten or 30 years should they stumble across a post or a tweet or a status update? Will their worlds come crashing down? The internet is foreeeeever, you know, and hastily written words can’t ever really be removed. Is it worth the instant gratification of expressing these emotions? Aren’t we selfishly putting our needs before theirs?
No. We are trying to fucking survive.
Motherhood is hard. The joyous and beautiful moments far outweigh the frustrating and infuriating ones, but they don’t comprise the complete package. If there is a mother out there who has effortlessly glided through this ride without a complaint, I want to know what pills she’s popping because it’s just impossible. Some mothers cope with alcohol, some cope with expensive shopping habits, some cope with extreme dieting, some cope with affairs… and some write. You tell me which is most detrimental to a family.
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