Everyone knows children get special treatment. We whine and complain about how annoying they are, frustrating they are, how stressful they are, and then when they actually do something worthy of punishment? We treat them more leniently than the NFL treats the Patriots.
We’re so blinded by stupid unconditional love that we give our kids more free passes than CVS gives coupons. Never is this glaring inequality more prominent than around the holidays.
Mother’s Day gifts are the perfect example.
According to the hourly reminders that someone set on my phone, Mother’s Day is this weekend. It’s the one solitary day all year long that anyone ever says anything nice about moms.
That last line there was a little bit of sarcasm. Because let’s face it, when it comes to parenting, moms already get all the praise.
Sure, that “praise” often calcifies into “being taken for granted,” which is just about complaint #1 from women everywhere (along with “I want more romance/passion!” and “socks go IN the hamper, not NEAR the hamper!”) but if you think about it, it’s a positive thing! Abilities and skills are only taken for granted once someone comes to rely on them. Kudos, moms everywhere! You’ve raised the bar for yourselves.
Unfortunately, that bar is just a little too high for your liking. So I’m going to level the playing field.
Earlier this week, I poked fun at the recent trend of celebrities bravely “normalizing” breastfeeding by doing it in public. The idea is that movie stars and models and whatever the hell Kardashians are can help remove the stigma around public breastfeeding.
Despite the fact that breastfeeding is as normal as it gets, this movement to remove the shame many women feel in regards to feeding their children is actually necessary. There are whole bunches of people who can’t stomach the sight of a woman breastfeeding in public!
On my Facebook page, I wondered – rhetorically – just who these garbage people are, going around making women feel shame over feeding their kids? Because I guarantee you, most of them have behaved far worse. We all have.
Last night, we had our neighbors over for a few drinks. Somewhere between my third and fourth beer, I forgot that I have a kid and a job and am thirty-eight, so I had three or four more beers. Now I want to die.
Thankfully, today is Friday, so I’m at work instead of sitting at home trying to occupy a four-year-old who wants me to pretend to be a firetruck-slash-dinosaur and get on my knees and chase him around the house all while holding my head and trying not to throw up.
Hungover parenting is not a lot of fun.