When you think about having kids as a skinny girl without a clue, you envision the prettiest picture. Like that addictive crack-like smell that inevitably led to one of the Z Money’s nicknames being Cocaina. Or just being able to hold something so cute and small that wraps its whole hand around your finger…
Well, if that’s what you’re expecting, buy a damn lemur.
Being a parent is hard. And it’s scary as hell. Their lives depend on you. Literally. You could kill them. It’s a miracle my littles have made this far.
Losing your mind begins really after you deliver. First they hand you the bundled up little, you hold her, cry hysterically and scream obnoxiously about how perfect she is. Then it hits you.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
That’s when the fear begins. If the baby sleeps too long than she’s obviously dead. If the baby doesn’t sleep enough then obviously she has some horrible disease that the pediatrician hasn’t picked up on yet and won’t until it’s too late. If you fall asleep then the baby is obviously dead. Because as all mothers know you have to watch your baby breathe dammit. Or else it stops breathing.
You also develop baby phantom syndrome. That’s a whole other story. Basically that’s when your brain has been infiltrated with so much fear and crying that the ringing in your ears has been replaced with the sounds of a baby wailing. So while you’re in the shower, you suddenly hear your baby cry. You grab a towel and run down the hall like a crazy person, tripping over dirty laundry and bouncy chairs, stubbing your toes on everything from consoles to side tables, only to find your little fast asleep. So rather than wash the shampoo out of your hair, you pull up a chair to watch the little breathe. Duh.
Then they get older and begin to roll over. That is when you’ve entered level two. They can now roll off high surfaces, bang their head on the bedside table’s corner, and hit the floor. That will inevitably lead to a concussion, a trip the emergency room and obvious damage. And it’s all your fault. And even if none of those things happen, and she just happens not to like math as an adult, you will always remember the day she fell. It’s your fault. She obviously hit the side of her head that affects mathematic ability. You let it happen.
And on and on and on. It just keeps getting worse. And the vivid imagination you develop just keeps getting sicker and sicker. Everything from kidnapping predators to horrible car crashes, bug bites to broken bones, and drowning in bathtubs to getting lost.
It’s a jungle out there. And I’m here to tell you what I wished someone told me. It’s not your fault. Kids will fall. They will bump their heads. They will get sick, then better, then sick again. As long as you’re doing all that you can do, concealing all your firearms, and feeding them a healthy dose of greens, you’re in the clear! Now dear God help me, L Boogie’s bus is 5 minutes late.
