Kids are assholes.
Sorry, there is just no sugarcoating it. They just are.
Yeah, they are cute and sweet and cuddly like half the time, but the other half of the time, they are seriously assholes.
I get that my son is still learning manners, but it drives me crazy when he offers me a very sarcastic, “I’m SOR-RY!”
For example, he has a penchant for stepping on my feet when he wants something. It’s like he can’t get close enough to me when he asks for a freaking apple, so he feels like he has to physically climb me, which always results in his bony heels digging into my bony feet.
“Dude! Get off my feet! For real!” I plead.
“Sawwww-rrryy,” he half-whines, totally insincere. We have gone over this time and time again, kid. You don’t step on Mommy’s feet. Why do you insist on ignoring the mandate and inflicting injury?
Oh, right, because you’re an asshole.
And it’s safe to say that there is no dry toilet seat in my house EVER, because despite being potty trained for months now, he still insists on leaving his mark. He sees it there. I know he does. I think he secretly enjoys hearing me groan in frustration every time I get a sticky surprise.
Even the baby is turning into a little deviant.
Yes, I’m going to go there.
She has officially learned the dog’s name before mine. She squeals with glee and shouts “Na-na!” (Mona) at the dog and stares at me with disgust like I am covered in toddler pee. And I know that I am, but she doesn’t need to give me the stink eye for it.
When it comes to a general indifference about someone else’s feelings, my kids are strikingly similar to the biggest assholes I have ever met in my life. But kids get away with it because they are “cute” and “don’t know any better.”
Let me tell you: It doesn’t make it any easier knowing that my child “didn’t realize what he was saying” when he pointed to my stomach and asked why it is “so wrinkly and squishy.”
“Mommy, I have a donut?” he asks sweetly one Sunday morning.
“Yes, baby, that’s your special treat for doing your chores this week.”
“OK, I eat this. But you don’t eat it. Because you can be fat for eating it. But I not fat. But you need to do exercises.”
(Um, excuse me, who taught you the word “fat” and why do you want to see Mommy cry?)
It still stings when my 10-month-old jumps out of my arms for her daddy even though I am the one who has been feeding her and protecting her from her foot-crushing older brother all day.
My kids and their BS personality disorders make me crazy. One minute, they are the most adorable, precious things that I just want to squeeze and kiss and taxidermy so I can preserve their sweetness forever. And just 10 seconds and one malfunctioning toy later, they are huge assholes who have no regard for the fact that MOMMY JUST WANTS TO SIT FOR ONE MINUTE. JUST ONE MINUTE.
No one tells you that this is what you signed up for when you decided to have kids. No one tells you about the Dark Side.
And you can be damn sure no one tells you about the pee on the toilet seat.