I tend not to spend a lot of time outside of the house talking about my children. That's not because I'm the world's worst parent. I'm pretty sure some guy in Missouri who is selling his kids to Somalian pirates for feed corn is worse. It's just that children are exhausting.
For example:
The other night, as I was walking upstairs after a nice day of working, followed by putting the kids to bed, cranking through my homework to the best of my ability, I walked upstairs and smelled poop. Now, there are two things you can do in this situation. Okay, there are like 100. I mean, I could have lit my shirt on fire and yelled for help. I could have gone back downstairs and used the internets to order a baby seal. Baby seals are cute. For the purposes of this response let's pretend like those other options don't exist. I could have either pretended to not smell it and go to bed. The consequence is that lil s would wake up with a rash and be sad and spend most of the morning keening like Macbeth's wife after she went crazy about how she has a rash, which turns out not to be the most harmonious way to wake up in the morning. I'd rather be greeted by a monkey clanging cymbals together. He'd also be wearing a bell hop's costume, because, obviously. I miss that guy already. Anyhow, or I could walk in and wake her up for a diaper change.
I opted for number two because I didn't need any feed corn on account of not being a farmer. As such, worn out from work and school, exhausted, ready for bed, I changed her diaper, which was messy, so shi- on the finger. If you don't know, having shi- on your finger isn't all that uncommon with kids, but I still wouldn't call it ideal. Like, I wouldn't use it in lieu of an engagement ring or as a conversation piece. Except now, when I'm using it as a conversation piece. Anyhow, this whole process winds up waking not that lil anymore s up, and she says that she needs a drink, a light, a snuggle, though eventually she just starts shrilling that she needs her mother. When I say shrilling, I mean screaming. I mean loudly screaming. This is one of those times when you have to remind yourself that children are not by nature grateful, or gracious, or thankful, or you know, potty trained, because I'm standing in the room with feces on my hand just trying to be a good dad and I'm getting screamed at. I knew I should have sold you to those Somali pirates, I told her, before calling for S.
Anyhow, having the lil field marshal screaming at you with feces on your hands isn't always something you want to talk about with other folks when you get a moment away. In fact, it may mean sort of avoiding it.
For example:
The other night, as I was walking upstairs after a nice day of working, followed by putting the kids to bed, cranking through my homework to the best of my ability, I walked upstairs and smelled poop. Now, there are two things you can do in this situation. Okay, there are like 100. I mean, I could have lit my shirt on fire and yelled for help. I could have gone back downstairs and used the internets to order a baby seal. Baby seals are cute. For the purposes of this response let's pretend like those other options don't exist. I could have either pretended to not smell it and go to bed. The consequence is that lil s would wake up with a rash and be sad and spend most of the morning keening like Macbeth's wife after she went crazy about how she has a rash, which turns out not to be the most harmonious way to wake up in the morning. I'd rather be greeted by a monkey clanging cymbals together. He'd also be wearing a bell hop's costume, because, obviously. I miss that guy already. Anyhow, or I could walk in and wake her up for a diaper change.
I opted for number two because I didn't need any feed corn on account of not being a farmer. As such, worn out from work and school, exhausted, ready for bed, I changed her diaper, which was messy, so shi- on the finger. If you don't know, having shi- on your finger isn't all that uncommon with kids, but I still wouldn't call it ideal. Like, I wouldn't use it in lieu of an engagement ring or as a conversation piece. Except now, when I'm using it as a conversation piece. Anyhow, this whole process winds up waking not that lil anymore s up, and she says that she needs a drink, a light, a snuggle, though eventually she just starts shrilling that she needs her mother. When I say shrilling, I mean screaming. I mean loudly screaming. This is one of those times when you have to remind yourself that children are not by nature grateful, or gracious, or thankful, or you know, potty trained, because I'm standing in the room with feces on my hand just trying to be a good dad and I'm getting screamed at. I knew I should have sold you to those Somali pirates, I told her, before calling for S.
Anyhow, having the lil field marshal screaming at you with feces on your hands isn't always something you want to talk about with other folks when you get a moment away. In fact, it may mean sort of avoiding it.
we dont talk about it with others, but any parent has been there and knows the joys of late night diapers and screaming kids..the worst is still ear infections!!
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