By Jacy Moreno of Pretty in Poop

I’m not a nice person.  I really don’t care about you or your kids.  I’m too busy trying not to fuck up my own kid to worry about whether you’re fucking up yours.  Frankly, I don’t even like kids, and I especially don’t like other people’s kids.

Like I said, I’m not a nice a person.  In fact, I’m cold.  And calculating.  If I’m really honest with myself, I am ruthless and cruel.  I am an elitist.  At one point or another, I’ve probably thought I was a better parent than you.  And you can bet that I think my kid is way cuter than yours.

If I have anything to do with it, my kid would never fall into a gorilla pit.  My kid won’t get snatched up by an alligator.  My kid won’t drown in a creek.  He won’t get kidnapped.  He won’t disappear.  He won’t get shot senseless at a school or a night club.  Of course I would never be as thoughtless as to leave my child in the backseat of a hot car for eight hours to die an asinine death. 

None of those things would happen.  Not to me.  But here’s the thing: I don’t have anything to do with everything.  There is such a thing as chance.  There is that tiny, insignificant detail in the contract of life that could change the course of events.  The footnote.  The asterisk.  The hidden clause.  The negligible probability of a horribly catastrophic event.

You want to know the real reason I don’t judge you?  Why I’ll never blame you?  Why I will NEVER cast a single stone?

Simply: It’s bad juju.

I am deathly afraid – terrified even – of the high-horse god, the universe’s karmic prankster.  It’s the same reason why doctors and nurses in the ER will never say, “Wow, it’s really quiet here tonight.”  It’s why when I’m driving, I’ll never chuckle and mention, “Thank God there’s no traffic!”  It’s why I’ll always tell someone, “Break a leg!” but never, “Good Luck!”

When tragedy strikes, I want to make myself as small as possible, the way students will shirk as the teacher eyes the next victim.  But this time, the stakes are higher.  The losses are greater.  The devastation much more unimaginable.

Juju.  Karma.  This is my way of trying to control what I have no control over.  This is me hoping that that fatal loophole never gets invoked by the gods of misfortune, spewing their arbitrary wrath on us inconsequential beings too stupid to understand the game those gods are playing. 

I welcome the small, and even the not-so-small, inconveniences in my life: the barrage of inevitable red lights I’ll hit when I’m already late; embarrassing toddler tantrums in public places; colicky babies during 8-hour flights (yours or mine); lost luggage; flat tires, fender benders, side swipes; broken bones; stolen credit cards.

I live my life by Murphy’s Law.

It’s as if I’m raising my hand to answer a question I already know the answer to in the hope the professor won’t call on me when the questions get harder.  If I take my share of bad luck in small, manageable doses, then maybe – just maybe – I won’t have to pay the price for something I absolutely cannot afford.

Kismet. Fate.  This is my way of trying to control what I have no control over.  This is me hoping that if I make enough deposits into the karmic bank, maybe – just maybe – I can temporarily bribe the reaper when he comes for me or my family. 

This is why I will smile reassuringly at a breastfeeding mother, even if she’s breastfeeding her ten-year-old.  I will give up my subway seat to a fat man on the off-chance that that man is actually a woman and that woman happens to be pregnant.  I will say hello and tip my hat off to the family parked in the handicapped spot even when no one is limping and there’s no wheelchair in sight.  I will volunteer my time and happily offer up (tax deductible) donations to eligible 501(c)(3) charities.  I’ll even buy overpriced Girl Scout cookies from the troop soliciting outside the gym.  I’ll humor my neighbor’s kid and order a tub of frozen cookie dough I’m certain I’ll never receive.  I will go out of my way to help strangers.  For friends and family, I will surrender a kidney.

But most importantly, I will not roll my eyes at the new mother obsessing over the color, frequency, or consistency of her child’s poop.  I will even go as far as to refrain from judging the judgy parents themselves.  I will not respond, acknowledge, or engage them as they preach their self-righteousness behind the soft glow of their computer screens at the comfort of their own keyboards.  In fact, I want to get as far away from them as humanly possible.  They are the impending carcass over which the vultures circle.  They are chum in shark-infested waters.  Swim with them at your own risk.

As for me, from one parent to another, I will support you.  I will take your side.  Unless you were actually intentionally trying to hurt your child, I will give you the benefit of the doubt.  I will think of you.  I will pray for you.

I’m not a nice person.  I don’t do this for you.  I do this for me and for my own self-interest.  It’s my way of trying to control the things I have no control over.  It’s the single grain of rice I’m hoping will tip the scale in my favor.  This is me hoping.  This is me knocking on wood.

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About the Author

Jacy is a stay-at-home mommy by day, professional Netflix viewer by afternoon, and aspiring writer and blogger by night. She has a husband, a son, and a black cat whose Christian name is “Dark Vader” but answers to the name “Kicius” (pronounced Kee-choos) which is supposed to be Polish for “kitty cat” although this has never been officially verified. Follow Jacy and her blog, Pretty In Poop, on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.