Children ruin everything

Children ruin everything.

Those words should be stamped on our genitals.

As a parent, you are Wile E. Coyote … and kids are the explosion that leaves your head blackened and hairless.

I know what some of you are saying:

“But, Ben, children are a super-sunshiny miracle who should be loved and nurtured and revered as a national treasure.”

To them, I say, cut back on the Benzedrine.

Hey, I love my children.

Everybody loves their children.

It’s what keeps us from selling them to the Gypsies. (Am I still allowed to use that word? No? OK, I won’t.)

That doesn’t change the fact that child-rearing takes arguably the best 20-or-so years of your adult life and leaves you a fat, wrinkled, nervous, and penniless mess.

I’m not saying that raising kids is like being forced to work in a psych ward.

Wait, I’m not?

But, with all the babbling, puking, pooping, snotty-noses, incoherent screaming, lying, manipulating, stealing, destruction of property and combativeness … where was I going with this?

And, unlike the nuthatch, you can’t just up and quit parenting.

I guess you can abandon your kids but most of us stick it out because we … love … them … so … dearly?

That, and for fear of being blamed once the little lunatic grows up to be a big lunatic and starts blabbing to some smart prick with a doctorate and a tropical fish tank.

Your kid: “I think the reason I drink is because my mother refused to buy the name-brand cereal.”

Smart prick with Ph. D: “Tell me, how did that make you feel?”

Your kid: “Inadequate. Buying generic choco-poofs was mother’s way of telling me I wasn’t good enough for her … or Cocoa Puffs.”

Look, I’m not saying parenthood doesn’t have its fair share of good times.

I’m just saying that it doesn’t.

Wait, what?

I mean, the price tag is awfully steep for a few poorly crafted Christmas ornaments and the occasional macaroni artwork.

You’re not fooling anyone, Tommie, we know you traced your hand to make that turkey!