Sunday, March 26, 2017

Reasons I Resent My Child - edited

How much time do y'all have to read this one?  Because the list of reasons why I fucking resent my child is seemingly endless.  I’ll limit it to four.  Okay?  If you want more, contact me offline and I’ll be happy to let you buy me lunch and discuss.

Let’s start with the most important issue.  This monster baby is completely destroying my social life.  Prior To Having A Child (hereinafter "PTHAC") Suzie naively said dumb shit like, “I’m not going to adjust my needs / wants / schedule for Marlowe.  She can exist alongside me or cry about it.  Those are her options.  I am not bowing down to this little asshole.  Not. Happening.”    Hahahahahaha PTHAC Suzie.  You are a dumb twat.

Before we were blessed with this little miracle, Jeff and I lived in the North End, and prior to that in Salem, where there are lots of great bars and restaurants.  Here was our typical week:

Monday – It’s going to be a long week.  We should go out.
Tuesday – Go out for tacos.
Wednesday – Hump Day!  We fucking made it!  Go out.
Thursday – Thirsty Thursday.  Go out.
Friday – Earliest night of the week (see above).  Go out and be in bed before midnight.
Saturday – Duh.
Sunday – F.U.N.D.A.Y.

8 months into this non-returnable item and here is our typical week:

Monday – roasted chicken, brussels sprouts and mashed potatoes. (Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!? But in all honesty, Jeff makes a mean brussel.)
Tuesday – tacos, either ordered in or cooked at home, while daydreaming of our favorite taco joint in Salem, their awesome artwork on the walls, great music, Joe the bartender, etc.
Wednesday – (Insert something boring.)
Thursday – On limited occasions we will go out for a drink and an appetizer, then rush home so we can do all of the things Marlowe wants to do, which is eat everything she sees, get a bath and some fresh jammies (she has never worn the same pair two nights in a row – I don’t know why, but I have a thing about it) and hit the crib.
Friday – Jeff and I usually check out of work early, have a late lunch and some wine, then argue about who has to go to Ms. Joan’s, collect the Bunny and do all of the things Marlowe wants to do.
Saturday – debate over who is getting up early with her versus who is taking a nap later in the day.
Sunday – see Saturday’s description, supra.

I’m sure you all have little to no sympathy for me because what I am describing inherently is exactly what I signed up for when I knowingly disregarded all forms of birth control, including abstinence. 

But...what I wouldn’t give for a dinner filled with good food, good conversation and good wine without my child slamming one of the 6 billion toys I now travel with into the table.  In fact, fuck the good food.  Just decent food will suffice. Or no food at all, and just the wine.  And the wine only needs to be airplane grade level or above.  The conversation though?  That’s a non-negotiable.  I want to talk about something other than diapers and drool for like, 2 hours.  120 minutes.  Is that too much to ask?

Reason Number Two that I resent my baby: I can't stop freaking worrying about her.

Didn't see that one coming, did you, loyal readers?  

Anyway PTHAC I worried about almost nothing: not really my job, not really my finances, not really my relationships.  I just existed in this blissful state of “things are pretty cool!” (with exceptions) but all in all, I wasn’t losing a shitload of sleep at night.

But motherhood is an all consuming bitch.  Is she developing right?  Is she getting enough sleep?  Is she getting too much sleep?  Is she drinking enough formula?  Is she eating enough solids?  Should she be crawling?  Doing long division?  Laughing at more of my jokes?

Her bedtime is a super mature 7:00 p.m., and mine falls somewhere between midnight and 1:00 a.m., so I check on her about 5 times before I fall asleep, and then 2-3 times overnight, and, because you are all math geniuses (carry the one!) you now understand that I never sleep and I always worry. This is the stuff dreams are made of. 

Sometimes it would be nice to go back to the days of just worrying about whether or not I have enough time to go to Chipotle for lunch.  (I always found the time.)

So basically I’m just like every other mom I know, except I say "fuck" more.  I thought I would somehow be different, but I’m not. I ruin her schedule all of the time and sometimes wish I didn’t.  I discuss her poop, her food intake and her sleep every day with Jeff and Ms. Joan. I have to do it.  I WANT to know except I also want to drive a knife through my eye because this is what I have been reduced to.

Ms. Joan and Big Mike have complimented us on our seemingly laid back parenting type.  Sometimes, I just don’t give a fuck if she has socks on.  Sometimes she eats mashed potatoes from KCF for dinner.  I let her stuff Vinnie’s ears in her mouth at every opportunity that he lets her, and when Jeff fucked up and she rolled off the couch my first reaction was “YESSSSSSSS NOT ON MY WATCH” followed closely by “Is she okay?”  I really hope the Department of Child and Family Services isn’t trolling this blog.

Reason 3:  I spent 99.9% of my life stuffing calories into face.  As I have previously mentioned, I hate feeding her.  While I love knowing that she is fed, and warm and loved, I really don't like the exercise of putting calories into her body.  (Actually, when she cries, I often soothe her by asking her if she has too many toys, or if her house is too warm, or if her clothes fit too perfectly, or if her bed is too comfortable.  Yes I know. In mere years she will hate me.)

So anyway, feeding her isn’t my favsies.  But obviously I do it, because I am not a total fucking asshole.  But I am not super picky about the shit we give her to see if she likes it.  For example, I know my 8 month old loves: mashed potatoes from KFC, Cheez-Its, refried beans, guacamole, marinara sauce, pizza crust, french fries and corned beef hash.  I know she does not like limes.  Hehehehe.

I was reading a blog the other day and the topic was: “How To Make Baby Food!” and I LOLed to myself and said: Step 1 – drive to Target.  Step 2 – buy baby food.  Step 3- give your kid part of what you’re eating and see what sticks.   I will NEVER made her baby food.  I’m too lazy and I just simply don’t care if everything she eats is organic or not.  (On a side note, I always make myself smile when I think of the term “organic food” because the opposite is not “inorganic food” – it all still has carbon in it.  I’ll shut up now.)

And finally, while Marlowe is the cutest baby ever, it really, really fucking pisses me off that she has a bald spot.  Like… just…no.  I can’t deal with it.  I dress her in shirts with hoods as often as possible. 

And that pretty much sums up why I am an asshole and people should have to apply and get the government’s permission to have a baby.

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