It’s OK to Hate Your Children

I have gotten some feedback about the depiction of my children in some of my posts. I want to address this, so no one gets the wrong idea about who they are and my relationship with them. The last thing I want is to give the wrong impression regarding how I feel about my boys.

I hate them. They’ve stolen my youth and my dreams. I would be SO much more successful today if they had never been born. They inhabit my every waking moment, and have shown no sign of slowing down until I am thankfully lowered into the ground, never again to produce a drink with ice and a straw for the zillioneth time. They invade my bed at night, leaving me stiff and twisted when I force myself to rise from my much needed slumber in order to throw them into a shower, listen to them complain about Mary El’s breakfast, shoehorn their freakishly big feet into sneakers and drop them off at school.

You’d think we’d get a break then, but we don’t. The place is constantly a wreck because of the messes they’ve made, the sink is overflowing with dishes from the 207 bowls of cereal they eat a day, they go through so many clothes our laundry room is impenetrable by mortal man, and right now three of the kitchen chairs are lined up in the livingroom as a makeshift bed with a blanket, three pillows and every toy gun in the house. Apparently ground zero for the invasion of Normandy is our livingroom.

By the time we get the place clean it’s time to pick them up. Conor eats his lunch on the way home because he doesn’t like to eat in front of people. Mary El and I somehow don’t qualify as “people”, because he has no problem attacking the food in our house like a peanut butter and microwave popcorn fueled cyclone. In fact, if children ruled the world I think parents would be counted as 1/8 person, in keeping with the indentured servitude that is expected of them. I would say this is an example of overstatement if my own children had not built us an outhouse in the back yard and insisted we use it. How they afforded the materials I’ll never know. Maybe it was the change they constantly pilfer when we’re not looking.

After dinner comes homework, otherwise known as Dante’s seventh ring of hell. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if my sins get the best of me and I end up cast down for, say, claiming to hate my children in a blog post, my particular punishment will involve having to forever hear “I know! I know!” and “Why did you TELL me?!” while teaching algebra to my son. My youngest is even more dear when he gets a spelling word incorrect. His head hits the table with a thud and he shoves the paper away from him and breaks the pencil in half. I think he may have picked up a teensy bit of my perfectionist nature.

At least bedtime is easy. As long as the appropriate snacks are involved. And a movie, don’t forget the movie, but it’s got to be something they BOTH like, which limits it to two movies, neither of which we own. Then there’s the nightly barroom brawl, wherein my two angels curse at each other like sailors on leave, then pummel each other until they are both bloodied and missing tufts of hair. When they are both unconscious, Mary El and I divide up our winnings, then work on getting the boys into a bed before their blood stains the rug.

What happened to the good old days when fear was the best motivator? When you stayed in line because you knew you would be put through a wall if you didn’t. Before we knew what silly modern psychological terms like “negative attention” or “parental abuse ” meant. You know, when if it didn’t leave a bruise you can see, it didn’t happen!

Stop Brian, you’re making light of a very serious subject. Abuse is nothing to joke about. So let me say this in as serious a tone as I can muster. I am an abused parent. They don’t let me sleep, they don’t let me eat, they scream all the time, it’s just one psychological torture after another. Please, if anyone can hear me, please send help! The address is…

Brian has been sent to his room. You probably won’t see another blog for a long, long time. Instead we will be listing items we want for our upcoming birthdays: a life-size Millennium Falcon, Gameboy DSI, a fully functioning golf cart, a small nuclear weapon, the drawf planet Pluto…

(Reaction from Mychal looking over my shoulder at the title: “Hey!  You hate me!?” “Nah, it’s only a joke.”)

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    • Joel Flowers
    • February 7th, 2011

    What’s the matter, you cheap bastard?! Why don’t you buy the two movies they like??!

  1. Because they change on an hourly basis. We could open up a Blockbuster, if anybody still rented movies.

    • Kae
    • February 8th, 2011

    So funny, Brian! Loved it!

  2. Thanks Kae–although I’m sure Laura was utter perfection growing up!

    • Kae
    • February 8th, 2011

    Well, Brian, in many ways she was, but

    1.) she had to have her way;
    2.) every work night at midnight– no earlier–she had to talk about her life’s problems;
    3.) it was practically impossible to get her up in the morning to go to school.

    But she was very entertaining! I remember vividly her performance in our kitchen of all three witches on horseback in Act I, scene 1, of the Scottish play. Also, Lady M.’s sleepwalking scene performed by a dinosaur. Juliet’s last scene as spoken by Walter Matthau.

    She’s a fun little girl!

  3. Sounds an awful lot like Conor, without the Shakespeare.

    I remember Laura’s Hamlet! If only she did it as Walter Matthau!

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