I am a grown woman with a full-time job and a family of five.
My children crawl into my lap at the end of the day and tell me about the things that happened to
them. Billy took my daughter’s lollipop. Jimmy punched my son in the jaw.
I listen. I console. I provide ice. I call the principal to alert him that his douchebag kid attacked
my precious angel. I threaten Billy’s mother at the PTA meeting.
The world demands these things from me.
But here’s the thing.
My tummy fwickin’ huwted today.
And my toddler didn’t do a damn thing about it.
What the fuck?
We spend the entire day together every single day. I do the reading. I do the cooking. I do the
teaching. I understand that I signed up for this.
But I didn’t know my child was going to be a selfish psychopath.
How hard is it to look at mommy and say, “I understand the weight of the universe feels heavy
on your soul today, and it’s manifesting in a physical way.” Huh?????
It’s not hard, Penelope. It’s really not.
Megan has to show up to third grade. Joel has to go to soccer practice. Your father has to
continue eluding child support payments.
And all you have to do, Nel, is offer your mother a bit of empathy.