Greener Grass

I hate my kids.  At least between the hours of 5:00 and 9:00.  When there’s homework and dinner and bath time and bedtime MMA (by the way I am the bedtime MMA heavyweight champion.  King Kong ain’t  got ISH on ME.) 

Then my friend in Georgia calls me about how her and her husband want to plan to have another kid.  I simultaneously feel happy, bad, and infuriated.

I feel bad and happy because I know everything they went through to have their first child.  I will never forget when she called me and was like,

“Guess who’s pregnant?”


“Me.”  There was so much joy in her voice.  And I have never, ever, not one time in my entire life, felt that way.  Never.  Because  I didn’t just have unplanned pregnancies (yeah, all three of them), I had planned-against-pregnancies.  Seriously, this chick here has NEVAH, EVAH, been off birth control.   And I have three kids.  Baby Pill, Baby Depo, and Baby IUD (even the doctor couldn’t believe that one). 

Yeah. The pregnancy test commercial where everyone is all happy?  Never once experienced that.  I was so tore up and broke down after finding out about Kid #3, (hereafter referred to as the Weirdo), the clinic called me the next day to make sure that I hadn’t killed myself. (Side note: I love the ground my kids walk on. Most of the time.) 

Was I happy for her?  Sure, because she’s my friend and it was something she wanted so bad.  But at the same time, I felt WAY smug.  Why?  Because I knew what the cabbage was about to go down.  When ol’ boy turned two, ish was about to get real. 

And it did. 

And I was like “Yeah, trick.  You thought being a mom was gumdrops, lollipops, and rainbows. You thought you were going to reason and time out your way through this, huh?  NOPE. HAHAHAHAHA!  What now, HO?”

Well, what I actually said was, ” Oh, girl, he’s two.  It’ll get better in a couple years.”  LIES. LIES. LIES.  Actually, it would get better–if she only had the one kid.  The next kid throws off the timing.  And then life sucks again for another four years.  And the third?  Fuhgettaboutit.  You got six years detention homie. 

So it does get better.  For about a year and a half until that first kid hits puberty, and you catch him looking at naked fake boobs.  Hilarious naked fake boobs that only a twelve year old would find fascinating.  But that story is for another day.