Raising Hell

I live with a horrible secret – I am not a fan of kids. Some days I am not even a fan of my own kids.

I never really envisioned myself as a mother. Sure – I thought about it and even wrote elaborate stories with my friends detailing our future husbands, the houses we lived in and our imaginary litters of kids. In retrospect, I believe it was because that’s how we were programmed. “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage”. A school-yard song implanted by those before us mapping out the steps to take along our journey. The same song generations of women had skipped to on the playgrounds before us. It’s what we do. Or so I was misled to believe.

Growing up, two of my sisters would babysit for the neighborhood families. I took care of the animals when their people were away. Now that I think about it no one ever asked me to baby sit. My mother has told my sisters, never me to my face, that I lack a single, sentimental bone in my body. I have also been told I have one feeling and it sometimes can be found in the bottom of my foot. Maybe they all knew something I didn’t. Sometimes I wish one of them would have told me. Regardless of who is talking shit to my face or behind my back, kids were never high on my “Must Have” list.

Imagine my surprise when I got pregnant at 19. Yes – I was taking the pill but was also taking antibiotics for a sinus infection. I joke I should have named her Amoxicillin. Once I found out I was gestating a human, I did what my grade-school recess programming told me to do. I got married and decided to name Baby Amoxicillin “Kaylin”. I thought she might struggle in kindergarten learning to spell Amoxicillin and I didn’t want her to start her education behind the 8-ball. Which is most likely what I would have been doing had I not got pregnant and married by my twentieth birthday. Fast forward and I know without a doubt, having her at a young age saved my life. I live to tell this horrifying tale of motherhood with two more children added to our brood and still married. Although NOT to the same husband. (Oh, Come On – You TOTALLY saw that one coming!)

However, this Hallmark-meets-Hot-Topic version of a happy and cohesive family unit has one thing that is still missing. My maternal instinct.

I must have ditched that day they were handing them out and gone to the beach. Or maybe I left it in my other pants, that I accidentally donated to Goodwill because they were actually mom jeans I had bought before I tried them on and discovered they didn’t fit right and I hate returning clothes. Maybe Big D threw it out after I had one of my homicidal, why-can’t-you-pick-up-your-fucking-socks?! episodes and he was panic-cleaning to save his life. Lots of important things get thrown out that way. Like 3 months worth of birth control pills, the mail box key, and the hermit crab named Peter, who may or may not have been dead already.

Yet, despite my lack of desire to bake cupcakes (or anything for that matter) for class birthday parties or dote over my off-spring with every breath, my anti-helicopter approach to raising children has thus far produced three fiercely independent young ladies. We must be doing something right. Big D and I marvel at the vast differences amongst our girls and enjoy watching them bumble and weave along their paths. We lean in and listen closely, encouraging each of them to follow their destinies. To not plot their charts by what routes we took but more by what speaks loudest to them. Hopefully, this way they can become familiar with and trust their inner voices and follow their bliss. Unless those inner voices tell them to hack up someone into tiny bits and feed those pieces to pigs because it’s harder for the FBI to trace. In which case they would have inherited that gene from me and then I must admit I am an epic failure at motherhood and insist you disregard anything I may have to say and you should probably alert the authorities to have my “mom card” pulled immediately before I cause any more damage to another human.

Still, you will never hear or see me gushing over babies or playing peek-a-boo over the partition with the ankle-biter in the next booth at a restaurant. For the love of all things holy, I just want to enjoy the meal I didn’t have to prepare, in peace and without some creepy, life-sized Chucky doll peering at me. I would rather shoot myself in the face then have to attend a baby shower and I have never volunteered to help in my girls’ classrooms due to my overwhelming aversion to small children in large groups and my propensity to swearing.

I am just not G-rated. Hell, I push a PG-13 rating on my best days.



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Giggling Ninja

To loving out loud, raising hell & living behind the scenes