parenthood

No, I’m not a heartless evil mother who never wants her child to have any fun. But he will not be going. Not for a school field trip. Not with grandma. Not for a playdate with a friend. My child is not going to the zoo. Full stop. End of discussion.

Let’s just all as a human race hold hands, sing kumbaya, and admit that ultrasound pics look like something out of Dia de Los Muertos rather than an actual human baby.

Her birth turned my life upside down in the very best way a tiny human can; and through her, I’ve learned some of the most profound life lessons.
By “profound lessons,” I mean, “I have fucked up a lot of times.”

I went to the premiere of Bad Moms last week. I might have peed my pants during the movie and it took about two days until my face stopped hurting. I don’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. (Okay, fine. There’s no “might have.” I did pee my pants. So what?)

My husband of 11 years recently and suddenly left me and our two children, ages 2 and 6. They are not yet aware that he’s gone. They think he’s traveling for work. I know it’s only a matter of time before they figure it out.

CN: mention of postpartum depression/suicidality. Generally, in my experience, people often get so excited about a new baby, that they forget that postpartum women need doting on, too.

“Don’t talk to strangers. Unless they resemble George Clooney and have a steady job at Microsoft. In that case, give them Mommy’s number, or just walk them straight home with you.”

I don't want motherhood to be where my life begins and ends. Sure, we can still talk about our kids, commiserate, and share in one another's parenting accomplishments — but at some point, we need to be more than mere storytellers of our children's lives.