I imagine being a dad is a lot like being expected to pass freshman art. You get credit just for showing up and even the most half assed effort gets praised.
I’m not saying dads are bad. I just think they don’t get the whole constant guilt thing. They don’t get how it is to be expected to act like the miracle of motherhood is all unicorns shitting skittles onto rainbows made of sunshine.
And if anyone ever tells me giving birth is magical again, some motherfucker is getting stabbed in the chest. You want to know what child birth is like?
Here’s what I got out of the experience.
I am not the world’s best mom. I’m somewhere between Mother Theresa and a mother cat that abandons her kittens on the railroad tracks. I raise my son the same way I run my life. I do what I can and I hope for the best.Am I a responsible soccer mom who is a member of the PTA? Hell no. As far as I’m concerned, when he’s at school, he’s society’s problem.
Do I occasionally pull him out of school so he can accompany me to an R rated movie? Absolutely. Though I have to say, the very definition of awkward is watching a plush toy simulate sex with a candy bar in front of your child.
I treat my son like a mini-adult because I fear him. I fear him because he is smarter than me.
Having a child is a bit like teaching a dog to talk, and then having that dog use his ability to talk to form high level, near socialist political opinions on current world issues that leave you stumped for an argument.
Pretty soon, he’ll be bigger than me too. My only consolation is that he needs me. My son is also incapable of working the washer or cooking a meal without stabbing himself, burning himself or flooding the kitchen.
It’s crazy how fast my kid changed from this approval radiating blob to a real person, with real opinions. It makes me realize he’s probably not going to need me forever.
I’m not the world’s best mother, by any standard definition. I let my kid play video games too long, and I forget to tell him to brush his teeth. I let him eat his dinner in front of the TV and I don’t involve him in clubs or activities.
But I know my son. I know he gets bored and frustrated during class, because the teacher moves too slowly for him. I know he gets upset when people expect him to be more mature than his age, just because he’s big. I know he’s an introvert, who prefers working on his computer as opposed to playing sports, because he’s good at computers. He wants to be a game developer someday.
I know he finds movies aimed at his age group condescending and ridiculous. He can MST3k a Disney movie like Joel Hodgson and he is utterly fascinated with documentaries.
He’s an atheist, despite the fact that I am not one. But his arguments for his beliefs are intelligent and he doesn’t condescend other people’s religious beliefs…at least not in front of them.
Somehow, this happy approving blob I created became a pretty cool person, with some pretty kick ass skills, who knows his way around a one liner and who is smart enough to know what a nerd I am when I sing along to Huey Lewis.
But is also nice enough to sing along with me.
I am a mediocre mom raising an incredible kid. I’ll never be the best, but at least I’m not the worst. Plus I’ve managed to keep a living being alive for 11 years and counting. The only living thing I’ve been able to grow that long before was bacteria.
To other mediocre moms out there, release your mother’s guilt and know that statistically, no matter how much you fuck up, at least you aren’t the worst mother in the world.
Now go celebrate by getting day drunk.
