I was so wrong. Because there are certain things you’re supposed to love when you’re a mom, but in reality, they utterly, completely, and totally suck. You don’t realize it, either, until you’re in the middle of them, until your soul’s being sucked out by the tiny toddler at your side, the one looking at you with wide eyes saying, “More, Mama? More?” and you ever-so-slightly want to run away to Vegas and start a second career as a blackjack dealer because this is your life now. And you can’t complain, because you’re supposed to love it. The secret is that most moms hate this stuff. Only the sanctimommies will tell you you’re wrong and don’t have the right to dislike what you dislike, because you can’t control your feelings. Sure, you can control your actions, but you can’t control how you feel about them. Hence why most moms keep the fact that they hate stuff a secret: It doesn’t make a difference anyway. And if you have a boy: It’s high and tight, baby. High and tight like God intended, because it’s all that keeps you sane. And then you did it, and you realized that only kids do this stuff for one particular reason: It’s brain-numbingly boring. But you have to do it anyway, or you are a horrible parent. So put on that cape and go save the planet, anonymous sidekick. But every day, you pretend to be thrilled to see them. You ask how their day went, knowing you will be greeted only with grunts. This is the way of the world. You are supposed to embrace it. When asked about this event, you are supposed to smile and say that the generation gap cracked you up. But you know you’re never doing this ever again. Wrong. Some kid will be hacking all over the place, leaving you in fear of disease. In fact, all these kids are basically germ factories. What were you thinking? These moms are all younger and hotter than you. They are judging you. You know they are judging you. But slap that smile on your face and remember those hand motions while you subtly inch your little one away from the snotty kid. You can periodically complain about how this animal was supposed to be little Billy’s job, but you’re supposed to love all living creatures, so you can’t actually complain for real, something which would take the form of a rant and end with an eviction notice for some critter. Is little Billy crying? Is little Elsa wailing? Have they hit someone, bitten another kid, or otherwise behaved antisocially? Cursed? Told all the other kids what “sex” means? Exposed themselves? The worries are endless. The terror that you actually dropped your kids off with a Satanic cult will linger. Because even if we hate playing and wish we could just have them listen to audiobooks instead of having to read out loud, we still love those kids endlessly.
