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.
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!