In all my efforts to have my daughter dressed in neutral colored clothing—because I loathe pink—and have no conversations about Santa, she is content with walking around looking like a bottle of Pepto Bismol and believes that Santa put the gifts that I spent hours wrapping last night (face palm).
I didn’t have the heart to burst her bubble, so I’m straddling the fence to the point where my crotch hurts. I’m holding on for dear life in this situation, even though I’m always the person who knows where I stand on things. Thanks Santa. I put in the work and you take the credit. Feels like the group project from hell.
Welcome to being a parent. Doing shit that you never thought you would, and killing it.
I’m an introvert who likes my peace, but how many times have I suffered through noisy play dates where kids are jumping all over my furniture and all I wanted to do was put myself on time for the rest of the day.
Or how about dealing with that mom you don’t really like, but my daughter loves their child. That is quite literally the worst. It’s like the gods are looking for ways to punish me.
Finding mom friends you like is like dating as a parent. You get acquainted, they meet the kids and it’s all amazing. But if and when it goes sour, the disappointment goes everywhere, quite like an exploding diaper. Too many people get hurt, so I pick carefully, and thankfully I’ve done a great job so far. So far.
So yeah, as my babies lay fast asleep and I had to answer the third unnecessary phone call in one day from NYC Covid Test, I got to thinking, yes motherhood is great, but I feel like I’m attending a roast and my kids are the hosts.