Congrats! You Didn’t Kill Your Kids

Dear parents,

I would like to congratulate you for successfully not killing your kids.

You made it through sleepless nights, were defecated upon, caught vomit with your shirt, and waded through snot, but you didn’t kill your kids.

Your walls were colored, probably the carpet too, maybe even the computer monitor, sometimes with crayon sometimes pen or pencil, and occasionally poop.  Your walls are dented, gouged, scratched, and peeled but you didn’t kill your kids.

The toilet was clogged with hair clips, toy food, your watch, keys and cellphone.  It overflowed with their trucker-sized turds and spewed pee-pee-poo-poo water all over the floor so that you had to use every towel you own to stem the flow and then sanitize 3/4 of your home, but you didn’t kill your kids.

During potty training  you found just as many puddles and piles as you did with Rex when he was a pup except he figured it all out after a couple of weeks and you’re going on two years, but you didn’t kill your kids.

Your kids told told your mother-in-law she’s a bitch,  told the neighbor she’s a hussy, told the checkout clerk he’s an idiot, and told daddy he’s a pervert because mommy said so, but you didn’t kill your kids.

Your kids outgrew all of their shoes within a week of buying them, except for every third pair, lost their winter coats in April, just before that last big cold snap, and turned all of your nice going out clothes into dress-up clothes, but you didn’t kill them.

They lost all interest in you except for what they could get out of you because they got busy practicing “independence” with their friends, and no longer wanted to participate in family events or help around the house, and left you in tears more times than you could count and then came to you crying when those same friends turned out to be loser douche bag assholes and life is soooo unfaaaaairrrrrr, but you didn’t kill your kids.

They broke your camera making duck faces and YouTube videos, used your makeup, stole your sexy lingerie, skipped class, and called you from two states over when she was supposed to be at a  sleepover at Mary Beth’s house, but you didn’t kill your kid.

They got in a fistfight over a girl, wrecked the car, flunked math, painted a mural on the ceiling, remodeled the bedroom to custom fit various electronic devices designed to take over the modern world or the interwebs, you’re not sure which, but you didn’t kill your kids.

They broke things, soiled things, ruined things, cost you more money than you ever thought possible, said things that sweet innocent little creatures should never utter, harassed you, abused you, shat all over you (literally at times), left you breathless and sleepless and feeling helpless.  They stole your youth, gave you wrinkles and gray hair, cost you vacations in exotic locales, and reckless frivolity.  They changed your life, branded your heart with their names and smiles, and have you wrapped completely around their sticky fingers.

Congratulations, you didn’t kill your kids.  You didn’t even try (though you thought about it once in a while).   Because you love them, and you would do it all over again even knowing what you know now, because the good stuff outweighs the bad by infinity squared. And they love you right back.  Forever and ever, amen.

xsnos, TIF



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