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Did you ever wonder if parenthood is for you? Do you like action films? Then, see any torture scenes, delete the assailant, and add your friendly neighborhood toddler.
My two-month-old son is upstairs sleeping after having woken up at 4 am—yet again—so my daughter and I have some sweet one-on-one time. After playing with her colored cones, feeding me imaginary foods she makes in her kitchen, chasing the ball around, and reading the same book five times, I was pooped. I laid down on the couch, and she said, “nanies,” the Greek baby word for sleep. And I was like, YES! Join me, child. She laid down with me and asked me to sing Gerald the Giraffe (a tune I made up to the words of the book Giraffes Can’t Dance), so here I was “napping” while singing to her. She finally gets bored sitting with me and climbs off the couch to see how she can entertain herself.
Ah. Peace and quiet. Out of nowhere, I hear this loud “cha cha cha” sound; she has “rediscovered” her maracas, which she has legitimately not played with since the moment she got them six months ago. Yet now that I’m doing “nanies,” she thinks it’s the most appropriate time to play with them.
I let it slide. I turn over (in the hopes of getting her to leave me the fuck alone), and before I know it, she’s climbing on me. She’s brought her baby doll’s bottle and thinks I’m looking mighty thirsty. She gives me a sweet smile and then a kiss. Then with all her might, she repeatedly shoves the bottle into my mouth with a look in her eyes like, “you’ll like this bottle, peasant.” Finally, she again loses interest and gets off the couch. YES! I get a minute to close my eyeballs.
“BANG BANG BANG” now she’s found the utensils from her kitchen. Up she climbs again, on me. As if I am a human mountain chain, she needs to scale. I intentionally kept my eyes closed, hoping that this would non-verbally communicate to her that she needed to go the fuck away. Nope. Does not dawn on her at all. The next thing I know, I feel this sharp, cold, metal substance shoved into my mouth. Eat “peasant” is pretty much what she’s telling me. So naturally, I eat the imaginary food and hope it will appease her enough.
Then she’s silent. I can still feel her knees jabbed into my stomach, and I wait, eyes still closed in anticipation. What the fuck will she do next? Then out of nowhere, she slaps my cheek. When I open my eyes to say in my gentle parenting, “no hitting, please” (while I rage inside), I realize she’s trying to play Patty Cake with me. Ha. I taught her to slap my cheeks and then clap her hands since she doesn’t have the coordination to aim to hit another person’s hands. I did this to myself. Yup. All me. In an effort to see her laugh, I taught her to slap the shit out of me when I’m “sleeping” on the couch.
Welcome to REAL parenthood: the psychological and physical torture we voluntarily put ourselves through in the effort to raise “good” kids.
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I get commissions for purchases made through links in this post. Did you ever wonder if parenthood is for you? Do you like action films? Then, see any torture scenes, delete the assailant, and add your friendly neighborhood toddler. My two-month-old son is upstairs sleeping after having woken up at 4 am—yet again—so my daughter… Read more: Parental Torture - The Poop Chronicles I: Painting Shit
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