I really really love my kids. I cannot imagine my life without them and I cannot think of anything else in this world that comes close to the joy they give me.
That being said, sometimes I think they are miniature hitmen out to kill my husband and I. It’d be the perfect cover: enter the world as a cherubic being, live in the house so the marks grow to love you to the ends of the earth, and then BAM. Take ’em out.
This is the only logical explanation I can come up with for the predictability in how children can slowly chip away at their parents sanity and health. Here are some classic examples of slow parent death techniques:
–Normally awesome sleeping children will inevitably employ the world’s worst night of sleep on 1) Sunday nights or 2) the night before anything really important that you need all your faculties for (read: early morning travel or work presentation).
–In a moment of being unprepared, and trying to live life like a regular person without 15 pounds of child gear attached to your person, your child will need said gear. This means a huge leaky poop when there are no diapers or spare clothes, a sneeze fitting a Giant when there is no tissue, sanitizer or baby wipes, and starvation when you chanced it and decided not to bring a bottle.
–At the moment you feel you can no longer muster the energy to live, your children will give you the flu that they had a minor case of, but you will have it in third-world country intensity.
–Your children will want nothing to eat unless you are trying to eat it. Then they will be very hungry, and only for the food they can take off of your plate.
If you do not identify with at least one of the above scenarios, you either do not have children or you are a robot. I’ll see you next time. If I live long enough to tell another tale…
Scribbling Dame 