Being a kid is f’ing hard.

This is an oldie but a goodie. Want to read some updates to how much being a kid must suck? Check it out here!

I’ve spent the last few weeks 24/7 with my kids. This isn’t a post about how hard it is to switch from working teacher mom to stay at home mom. How badly I would like to take a poop by myself or how minimal my personal hygiene has become. No, that post is certainly on its way but today’s post is all about childhood. And how much it sucks.

Tommy is very proud, he has his first loose tooth! I have never seen a six year old touch a loose tooth less. For a kid who gags when you apply sunscreen and thinks bagel bites are spicy, he’s holding it together well. He was slightly panicked when I told him it might bleed a little bit. He doesn’t realize there will be a soft, fleshy hole to stick his terrified tongue into. Or that this will happen like 20 more times.

And my poor baba loving Bettejane. If someone followed me around all day monitoring and measuring my iced latte intake, limiting it to some dumb Googled amount per day, I would run away from home. Or murder someone. Probably both.

Life is a prison and I am the warden who sometimes hugs and tickles but mostly turns off the tv and never pours a full class of juice. And to constantly have to ask for permission…for screen time, snack time, to get out the Playdough. My God. I would scream all day and smear feces on the walls of my cell. I can’t believe how well my children handle being children.

Can we get back to the teeth? I remember when my wisdom teeth came in. I was 28 and in grad school. I sat on the couch with frozen peas on my cheeks. I whimpered and moaned for days. I cut a trip to Old Navy short to pop into the attached Applebee’s to chug a White Zinfandel. (Why White Zinfandel? I have no idea. Delirious with pain, I guess). Yet I expect my darling toddler to just deal with it? Thousands (Millions?) of years of being people and we haven’t figured out a better way to get teeth?

She screams for days and wakes up covered in drool. She smells like spit. She cries in the tub. She cries in her sleep. She looks at me…her eyes pleading “What the actual fuck! Do something!”

For me the recommended dosage on the back of ibuprofen is a gentle suggestion. A take it or leave it sort of thing. When it comes to my kids I don’t play pharmacist. A measly 5ml and frozen rings are all I have to offer her.

Imagine if I told this story to my girl friends over brunch:

So Casey comes home from work and I’m watching the end of Paw Patrol. Without even asking about my day he’s all “Hey honey, can you put your shoes away?” Whatever. I’ll get to it. Three seconds later he says “Did you hear me?” He didn’t even give me a chance to get up. Now I’m like F you. I’m going to sit here and watch what happens to the Mayor’s chicken. These dogs waste a lot of time saving her chicken. “Honey, it’s important when someone is talking to you that you answer them. Did you hear me?” Does he want me to get the shoes or answer him? Focus your bitching on one thing. I’m getting up when he yells from the kitchen “God damnit! Just put your shoes away!” I walk as slowly as I can towards my shoes. I toss them in the closet and wait for the lecture. “Thank you, honey. I’m sorry I got frustrated with you. I love you very much. You’re getting older so I expect you to do more things around the house. I raised my voice because you didn’t answer me. That’s very frustrating. Now come give me a hug.”

They would insist I leave him! What an asshole! My children ride this emotional roller coaster eleven times before breakfast.

Stop digging in your butt. Put your socks on. Take your shoes off. Don’t run! Hurry up. Eat. Eat. Eat. Time for a bath. Time for bed. Brush your teeth. Turn off the TV. Watch a cartoon. Don’t bug your sister. Play with your brother. I love you. I love you. I love you.

You just learned to walk? Congratulations. Here’s a bike. Try not to die. Go ahead, jump in the deep end. I promise I’ll catch you. I won’t. But it will be good for you. All kids learn how to swim by having their mothers water board them. And the sick joke of it all…when you’re an adult…you don’t have to do any of it. You think I ride a bike and do math now? Nope. I have a car and a calculator.

If you’ll excuse me I have to give my kids Cheetos and chocolate milkshakes for breakfast. They deserve it. They are God Damn heroes.

Thanks for reading! I’d love to connect. Find me on Facebook at Rach Writes.