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Broke Wife, Big City
This is why we
don’t stick our hand in the toaster
By Aprill Brandon
The pitter-patter of little feet. This is what is promised to you when
you become a parent. The sound that will fill your house, night and
day.
And it truly is one of the greatest sounds in the world.
Unfortunately, this sound is accompanied by a whole orchestra of other
sounds that are much less talked about, let alone celebrated. And in
our house right now, that pitter-patter is followed by much bigger
pitter-patter and an exhausted voice repeating over and over:
No.
Don’t.
Stop.
And perhaps the most frequently heard phrase in our home:
Why? Just…why?
Because what no one tells you when you’re pregnant is that babies grow
up to be toddlers. And being the parent of a toddler means being the
perpetual bad guy. My whole life has been reduced to telling a tiny
version of myself to knock it the hell off.
And it’s exhausting. Not to mention spirit-crushing for both of us. I
want to let him explore and discover the world on his own terms. The
only problem is “his terms” always means eating dog poop and climbing
up to the top of highly unstable objects and running toward oncoming
traffic. All activities that would likely result in his untimely death.
And I think we can all agree that his death would reflect fairly poorly
on my skills as a mother.
And so, it’s the constant refrain:
No.
Don’t.
Stop.
Why can’t you destroy Daddy’s books for once?
There for a while I did try to turn a positive spin on these moments
like all those new age-y parenting books I never read say you should.
“It FRUSTRATES me when you smear poop onto your head, sweetie.”
“I understand that throwing oatmeal against the wall is fun but then
Mommy has to use a freaking chisel to get it off said wall and I’d much
rather use that time to do something productive, like watch 11
consecutive episodes of ‘American Horror Story’ on Netflix.”
“Drinking the milk out of a sippy cup that’s been missing for three
days just isn’t healthy, pumpkin. Plus, that ER doctor was super
judgmental of my parenting skills the last time you did this, remember?
Please don’t make me face him again.”
But here’s the thing: Children don’t give a crap. About your feelings.
About your time. About your sanity. You can’t reason with them. They
just want to throw oatmeal and make feces art and eat rancid chunks of
milk simply because they can. Because they are tiny, tiny little
savages.
And, I mean, who can blame them? Hell, I’d probably throw my oatmeal
against the wall too if it was societally acceptable and wouldn’t get
me thrown in the looney bin. It makes a fantastic “thwap” sound.
But one of us has to be the adult. And since I’m the one who doesn’t
feel an overwhelming desire to stick my whole hand in the toaster, that
duty falls to me.
No.
Don’t.
Stop.
Put your penis away, please.
On the plus side, as much as it sucks to be the perpetual bad guy, at
least you aren’t just any bad guy. Oh no. You are no low level petty
thug. You are the kingpin. The Mafia boss. The corrupt police chief.
You are Khaleesi, with the power of huge, fire-breathing dragons in
your corner.
Your power is absolute.
As an example, let me just point out that yesterday the northeast
corner of our dining room was just your average, every day corner. But
today, with a mere finger point from my all-powerful finger, I turned
it into a toddler torture chamber. Or at least that’s what I’m assuming
passers-by thought when they heard the pained howls and cries of mercy
my kid belted out when I told him to go stand in said corner as
punishment for hiding the TV remote in his dirty diaper.
Sometimes, it’s good to be (the evil) king.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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