Yesterday, I announced my intent to write a book titled “Mommy, My Butt Hurts” and Other Indicators I’m Living The Dream. I’m still going to do that sometime between learning American Sign Language and how to play the guitar. (Put it on your calendars. At this rate, it should be out in 2036.) In the meantime, I thought I’d share a few of my favorite signs of parenthood.
You dread going anywhere with clocks on the wall for fear fellow patrons will take issue with your little one’s excitement over the “big cocks and little cocks and medium cocks and lots and lots of cocks EVERYWHERE!”
National holiday parades consist of you constantly apologizing and assuring passersby that your toddler is not, in fact, homophobic but rather really excited about all the FLAGS everybody’s carrying around.
Restaurant-goers are often startled by the shrill “Give me more balls for my mouth!” emanating from your table. You can’t blame your child for that one. Fried mushrooms are pretty darn good, after all.
You have had human feces on your carpet and walls on more than one occasion, and you neither live in a crack house nor a meth lab.
Everyone in your house sleeps through the night. Well, except for that one time you decide to get shit canned and wind up with your face stapled to the carpet. Then everyone wakes up every 2 hours. Screaming, mind you. Everyone wakes up screaming.
You’re so used to asking whether someone has to go pee pee or poopy when they need use the potty that you accidentally ask your coworker the same when she gets up to use the restroom. And you do this more than once.
Everything’s just so…sticky.
In response to your questions about how they’re doing, your family members reply, “Mommy, my butt hurts,” and you know it’s time to go diggin’.
Your house consistently looks like a 3 foot tornado has torn through the rooms.
You have the self-esteem of a 6th grader who’s hit puberty now that you’re perpetually bombarded with “Why is your face so wrinkly?” and “Why is your tummy so poofy?” and “Why are your fingers so fat?” and “Why is your skin so splotchy?”
You’ve begun taking careful inventory of your word choice ever since your preschooler announced he forgot to brush his “goddamned teeth.”
Your one chance at a wild and crazy night out turns into eating a modest, kid-free dinner and returning directly home to view a crappy action movie and hit the sack early.
Everyone in Applebee’s knows your 2 year old “HAS A PENIS!”
You’re certain every knock at your front door is CPS coming to commandeer your children after your 3 year old asked his classmate if he “want[ed] a beer” during playtime in the toy kitchenette.
You’re tired. So friggety fucking tired.