Dear Kids: Stay The Hell Out Of My...Everything
Ah, kids. They are such a gift, right? Remember before we had kids? Remember when we wanted nice things, so we just went out and bought nice things? And remember how when we would buy the nice things, we’d come home, and put our nice things wherever we wanted, and they would always, always be right where we left them? Intact? Good times.
Now we have kids, and everything is ruined — everything. Our houses. Our cars. Our vaginas. How did this happen? My kids must have some kind of internal magnet designed to seek out anything I ever loved and immediately destroy it.
I decided to write my kids an “open letter,” mainly because they’re so good at opening shit and never, ever closing it. They won’t even read it and since it’s open, this letter will go stale in two days, just like everything in my pantry. What the hell — I’ll write it anyway. I guess I just love talking to myself.
My dearest, darling children,
You are the best thing in my life. You are my reason for living. You are also the reason I am batshit crazy. I love having you in my life, just not in my life. I thought motherhood would turn me into a selfless martyr 24/7. Guess what? It didn’t. Believe it or not, some things are still mine. Here are just a few of the things I would really, really like you to stay the hell out of:
My Bed
Ok, I’ll admit, when you were little, I welcomed your little footie pajamaed-body into our bed. Now you’re big. Now you’re like 6 feet tall. Now there’s sweating, drooling, random punching, incoherent mutterings, and there was that time one of you actually bit my ear — my ear! It’s like sleeping with Mike Tyson.
My Guest Bathroom
Because it is for guests, this is the only pristine, calming area of our house. It’s basically a tiny vestige of my former life, pre-kiddos. White, monogrammed linen towels, expensive soaps, no toothpaste on the mirror, actual toilet paper on the actual holder — fancy as fuck! So when you come home from school and go directly into that beautiful guest bathroom to drop a deuce, (and never flush it), or make Barbie soup in the sink, my eye starts twitching. You have your own bathroom — that and the rest of this house always looks like it was ransacked by wolverines. I’ve accepted that, but this is my pretty powder room. Can I just have this one tiny turd-free room?
My Purse
You are always digging in there for my phone, quarters, gum, or just someplace to drop your half-eaten banana. My purse is not your trash can. If you enjoy finding banana goo, pre-chewed gum, and rando trash in your purse, parenthood might be for you!
My Phone
Your phone is always dead, so then you ask for mine. And why is my phone always dead? Because when I was having the only face to face adult conversation I’ll have all month, you were streaming Netflix, taking 37 selfies, or making videos of your “lit dabbing and twerking skillz.” Thanks.
My Bedroom/Closet/Bedside Table
Unless you want to stumble upon a creepy box of your baby teeth, your letters to Santa, and/or my “toy” collection… And um, no, that is not a mini lightsaber you found. Do not try to use the Force! The Force does not require batteries! Just put that down and get out!
My Makeup
This one is mostly for my daughter, obviously. Unless my son suddenly goes Goth or becomes a Juggalo.
My Good Chocolate
Go eat your damn Tootsie Rolls from last Halloween and leave my tiny box of $30 Swiss truffles alone. You won’t like them, they’re…spicy. Yeah. That’s it. Spicy.
My Plate
I could be eating calf brains and dandelion greens and you would ask for a bite. Only then will you suddenly remember you only like beige foods covered in ketchup. Thanks for spitting the food back out on my plate instead of in your (non-existent) napkin. I guess I was done eating anyway. Best diet plan ever.
My Good Scissors
I had one pair of super awesome scissors. Had. I’m currently trying to clip coupons with some Dora the Explorer safety scissors covered in banana goo that I found in my purse.
My Adult Conversations
It’s really hard to talk a friend through her divorce when you are screaming “Come look at my poop, Mom! It’s green!” in the background. Are you in the guest bathroom? Of course you are. Why do you ignore me until the very moment I get on the phone or sit down to chat with a friend?
One day when I’m old and gray(er), you’ll be here, helping me pack up my broken, boogery belongings, and you’ll say, “Oh, mom, we are so sorry we destroyed your house, not to mention your dreams.” Then you will put me in a home and visit every Sunday, probably to steal the Jell-O off my tray.
With any luck, you’ll bless me with a couple of grandkids just like you, and those assholes will avenge me.
Love,
Mom
