My kids don’t make me happy

Absolutely! I love this.

The Matt Walsh Blog

“Kids won’t make me happy.” I’ve heard that statement, or statements to that effect, thousands of times. Enough that I should, by now, have a response prepared. But when a guy said it to me a few days ago, I fumbled the answer. I failed him.

“I don’t know, man. Don’t get me wrong: I think it’s cool that you’ve got kids and everything. But, personally, I just don’t think kids would make me happy.”

That was his comment to me as we stood out in the cold, him smoking his cigarette, me secondhand smoking his cigarette. Maybe I just wanted to go back inside. Maybe I didn’t feel like having this conversation. Maybe I judged him for his selfishness. Well, I did judge him for his selfishness. I shouldn’t have — it was pretentious and arrogant of me — but I did. Whatever the reason, I offered a nonsense response…

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I’m “That Guy”

So, you guys, I’ve been thinking a lot about hosting a contest here. But I’m not sure what the prize should be. I mean, I’m sure you all are mostly parents because, well, lets face it, why would you be reading if you weren’t? Unless you just like me. (In which case, you have awesome taste.) But…what kinds of things would you guys be interested in winning. Like, within reason. I’m not giving you a beach house. Just stop it.

So what’s the verdict? What’s a good prize? Also, it will involve Facebook. So get ready to like the hell out of me. Go.

Validation

I love being a parent. I love it so much that sometimes I wonder how I got to be so lucky to have been given these adorable little people to teach and love and raise.

And then there are days like today. Days when you wake up, optimistic, and get started on diaper changing and breakfast cooking and then the shit hits the fan. Someone has a tummy ache and the other is teething. L doesn’t want oatmeal for breakfast and she very loudly protests it, throwing Baby O into an almost melodic tantrum just because, you know, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em! Then no one wants to play. Or bounce. Or partake in any tummy time. And someone else is NOT HAPPY unless some wildly annoying children’s show is on TV. And then no one wants to take a nap. And when you put one down, he starts screaming, which forces the other one to become concerned and start screaming as well. And then, once they are finally calm enough for you to attempt the nap time ritual, they become monsters again. One literally JUMPS out of her crib and onto her head while the other angrily yells from the next room. And you freak out about the bump on the head of the one, while simultaneously trying to rub Orajel on the other one’s gums so that everyone will just STOP. EFFING. CRYING. And then they do. And you walk out of the room and think that you are absolutely the worst, most inept parent that ever walked the earth. And you sob for exactly 35 seconds until one of them finds you. And then you turn off the waterworks and you carry on. Inept or not. You’re still mom.

I’ve said before that sometimes I just want to stick my head in the oven. And today has been that kind of day. I want to crawl into my bed and hide from the kids until their daddy gets home. And then HE can make 33 different kinds of food for L for dinner, 32 of which she will refuse to eat and will end up spattered on the floor and wall. And HE can bathe them and lotion them and strap the monitor to HIM for the rest of the night and attempt to do ANYTHING that doesn’t directly involve a baby. I am certain he couldn’t hack this job. But some days I want to see him try, so that I can relax. And maybe, for once, he can want to stick HIS head in the oven. And I will feel completely validated.

I wrote this post yesterday. And when MB got home, he made 33 different options for L’s dinner (32 of which ended up on the floor and/or the wall. And I did not feel validated. Because today turned out exactly the same as yesterday. Except that when I lost my shit, holding Baby O and trying to fend off the teething monster that has overtaken our lives, L came to me with a concerned look on her face and said, “It’s OK” and held out her tiny index finger for me to kiss. (Because, this week, when L wants to tell you she cares about you, she sticks her finger in your face and you kiss it. It does what its told.) And, it WAS okay, you guys. Because, THAT is validation. There is so much love here. And yeah, teething sucks. And diapers are the devil. And sometimes you just want to hurl yourself off of a 80 story building, but at the end of the day, there are tiny index fingers that need smooching.

And it’s OK.

 

Jinxed

This part of the post was written a few days ago. And it has pretty much been this long since they have slept. At least, that’s how it feels.

I have been trying to get Baby O to sleep for the past two hours. He will only nap while I am holding him and I am currently sitting quietly just a few feet away from him, trying to pretend I don’t see him staring at me from his swing (which is so worn out, it no longer swings) with that “so when are you planning to pick me up?” look on his face. I remember these days all too well with L. You know, when it would take three hours to get her to sleep and then she would humor me for exactly 23 minutes and give me a break. Long enough to pee and sit down just long enough to find something I wanted to watch on TV, only to immediately hear her screaming again as soon as I breathed that sigh of sweet “baby is sleeping” relief and settled on a re-run of “Sex and the City“.

I can’t really complain about Baby O too much. He sleeps, usually, really well at night. Like, 10-12 hours on most nights. Very seldom does he wake up in the night to be fed or changed or anything. I think he realizes how much his sister does this and tries to do what he can to help me maintain some level of sanity. And I appreciate it. But as he gets older, and sleeps less during the day, I am finding it harder and harder to find a second for myself.

I manage pretty well, I think, for someone who is high strung and who has a really hard time just “rolling with the punches”. I mean, a four month old and a seventeen month old is no cake walk. The morning routine, alone, is sometimes enough to make me throw up my hands and surrender.

Nap time used to be my “me time”. And now, I can’t get them both to do it simultaneously. L, having previously been my problem napper, has become some kind of lovely little angel most of the time when I lay her down, still awake, in her crib (if you can believe this!) and Baby O babbles and babbles and insists on being held for the entirety of L’s nap, making it impossible to just…relax.

Skipping ahead a couple of days:

Okay, I have to be honest. I don’t even remember the last few days. There really isn’t much distinction between them these days seeing as I spend EVERY SINGLE DAY fighting the same battles of mommy-hood and waiting for Sunday when my husband MIGHT be home to help out. But I can tell you this, remember up there when I said that L was a great napper? Well, I lied. She is hateful. She is trying to make me crazy today. I am sure of it. (It is absolutely true that the INSTANT you start talking about how well your child is sleeping, they STOP DOING THAT.)

I have been attempting to get L to nap now for the last two hours. Which is only half true. Because I got her up and gave her a snack and some milk and then started the process all over again. And, she isn’t currently screaming. So, I can’t really say anything else about it. But, of course, the second I got L to ZIP IT and lay in her bed, Baby O woke up and started getting restless. And is now sitting beside me, refusing a bottle and whining. Because, he is dry, clearly not hungry, not tired and refuses to play with anything. Or take his pacifier.

It is gonna be a long week, internet. A LONG WEEK.

“You’re a stay-at-home mom? What do you DO all day?”

I love this!

The Matt Walsh Blog

It’s happened twice in a week, and they were both women. Anyone ought to have more class than this, but women — especially women — should damn well know better.

Last week, I was at the pharmacy and a friendly lady approached me.

“Matt! How are those little ones doing?”

“Great! They’re doing very well, thanks for asking.”

“Good to hear. How ’bout your wife? Is she back at work yet?”

“Well she’s working hard at home, taking care of the kids. But she’s not going back into the workforce, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh fun! That must be nice!”

“Fun? It’s a lot of hard work. Rewarding, yes. Fun? Not always.”

This one wasn’t in-your-face. It was only quietly presumptuous and subversively condescending.

The next incident occurred today at the coffee shop. It started in similar fashion; a friendly exchange about how things are coming along with the…

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Wow!!!

Guess what, guys! Broken Condoms has hit 1,000 followers!!! I can’t believe it and, furthermore, can’t thank you guys enough for being such a fan-freaking-tastic audience for the last (almost) two years!!! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!! Feel free to head on over to my Facebook page and follow me there too!

Good to Know

I just wanted to stop in and say a GIANT THANK YOU to all of you who posted comments on my last post. I haven’t had a chance to respond to most of them but it means a lot to know that I am not the only one who goes through this (or similar stuff). I appreciate you guys! If I could, I would bake you all some brownies. Bacon brownies. Because THAT, my friends, is LOVE.

 

Mother’s Day cards have no rhymes for ‘episiotomy’

My favorite Mother’s Day post. You know, because I am one of the ones celebrating my first one this year. And I hope my kids thank me for the episiotomies. Some day.

Ned's Blog

imageSoon, it will be Mother’s Day. For many of you, it means sending a flowery card that says all the wonderful things you’d say if only you had a thesaurus and someone from Hallmark breathing down your neck. The truth is, the meaning of Mother’s Day has been lost over the years thanks to stupid greeting cards filled with heartfelt phrases like:

If your love was an ocean, you would’ve drowned me as a child.
Or,
When I think of love, I think of you. Because of this, you have no grandchildren.
Or,
With every smile, I remember a special moment that will never ever be forgotten — Happy belated Mother’s Day!

The true meaning of Mother’s Day, as any mother will tell you, has absolutely nothing to do with flowery cards or fond memories — and everything to do with sacrifice.

That’s right. You want to let Mom know…

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