The other night I was lying on my 7 year-old’s bedroom floor tossing a tennis ball up in the air while listening to strum her guitar and sing her spelling words. Suddenly she stopped and asked “Mom what is a uterus?” I told her and she said “So it’s like a baby cage.” “Essentially yes, if you put babies in cages freak.” This conversation was preceded with me asking my youngest daughter how school was and she said “Great! ______ didn’t even hit me once today!” “Whoa there cowgirl, glass is getting a little too full. Tell me again what this little punkass kid’s name is again.” I absolutely love, love, love listening to my children’s worldly perceptions. Even if I was not legally bound to them, I would like my kids anyway because they are cool chicks.
Just last night, I was looking over my daughter’s math homework when I realized she had written “This confused my mother. Can you help her?” next to a word problem written by Chinese astrophysicists. Whatever. I cannot be the only one that saw through the bullshit of algebra which serves absolutely no purpose in life except to employ future algebra teachers. I sat through many-a-math-class in my day and endlessly watched, void of any emotion as my captors attempted to brainwash me with their nonsensical language consisting of imaginary numbers combined with random letters with a bunch of parenthesis. I was one of the fortunate ones that did not go insane during my math internment because I taught myself how to practice mind control and successfully managed to not learn anything. Suck it.
So you can imagine my guilt when I am forced to lie to my children and circuitously support the system by saying things like “Math is fun!” “You will use this for the rest of your life!” “Girls are awesome at math!” And then I chuckle because the people enforcing laws requiring mathematical education are the very same people that have managed to run our country into massive debt. But whatever because irony is amusing and my intention was not to discuss the irrelevancy of math but rather why kids are funny and trying to raise them is even funnier.
When I was in high school I used to babysit for the love child of Leona Helmsley and Charles Manson. This future success story would lock himself in the bathroom with scissors and shove 4 inch pieces of hair under the door while I pleaded with him to come out. I would lay him down for a nap and he would pretend to sleep, pop out the screen on his window, scale down 3 stories of their mansion and go ring the doorbell, give me the finger and run away. I realized I was really not suited for this job when the 5 year-old sociopath snuck into the guest bedroom where I was sleeping one night after his parents were out late avoiding him and pointed a shotgun at my face. Fo real. I quit the next day and his mom told me she was “disappointed” in me since her little bastard had “become attached” and “really loved” me and “would be extremely upset” when I left. Whatever bitch, I wouldn’t buy him a kitten.
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This experience taught me that if a child wasn’t going to try and murder me I would probably be able to find something endearing about them. A couple weeks ago I was babysitting for some very wholesome (or so I thought) friends of ours who were in a pinch. I snuggled, played with and spoiled their adorable kids all day. I even texted Mike and told him I wanted another baby but every party has a pooper and it is usually him. “No Erin, blah blah blah You get all post partumed out blah blah blah You cry a lot blah blah Hands full now No Sleep and Sore Nipples blah blah blah.” Anyway, the little girl told me she wanted to spend the night. I told her she could anytime and she said “I want to sleep in the bunkbed but does your kid sleep or does she stay up and jack around all night?” And I choked on my coffee because I was laughing so hard.
I am definitely the girl to call when your kid busts out a “Motherf---ker” while you are sitting in traffic. Don’t try to make friends with your mother-in-law and recount this tale to her because she will inevitably blame you for screwing up her grandchild despite the fact that he has half her son’s genetic material. Call her only when your kid has his first communion or does something stupid like tries birthday cake for the first time and makes a mess. Yes, as your friend, I am totally excited that your baby just rolled over but I am absolutely ecstatic when she throws a temper tantrum and barfs on you with two hours to go on an airplane because that will make me laugh.
You can also call me when you have been up all night with a sick baby watching infomercials and you accidentally order Hip-Hop Abs one night at 3:00am in a state of delirium. And then the package arrives a week later and you are like “how the fuck did that get here?” and you get mad at your husband for insinuating you are fat because you think he ordered it. Or when you take your first baby on a vacation to Sea World and you are convinced she is severely constipated despite the pediatrician telling you three different times that she is perfectly fine but he is obviously dumb and so you proceed to feed her a jar of prunes. Your kid shits up her back and all over a restaurant highchair so you just throw out her expensive Juicy Couture outfit and go buy her an ill-fitting Shamu t-shirt because you forgot to put an extra outfit in the diaper bag. Or like when your kid goes to preschool and tells her class that “mommy has a yeast infection and it is really itchy” and her teacher calls you laughing and asks how your vag is. These are just examples, I am not speaking from experience. XO
I am a writer, parent, and generally loose in the world. Yes, I meant what I said. Whatever. I handled it.
