It is a documented fact veteran parents like to school those of us who have been active in the field for less than five years on time dilation, and the maximum enjoyability factor of our childrens’ youths. They are mother f’ng scientists in street clothes, my friends. Scientists of time who spend their days haunting the most sugar laden isles and longest checkout lines in grocery stores, waiting for the first sign of a child’s tears and tantrums to appear. They pop out of their labs, which I assume are located by the hemp milk and flax seed, and where I assume they are busy studying how to extract maximum enjoyment from potty training accidents and feeding an infant with cracked nipples, as your child is reaching def-con forty. They appear just long enough to to tell you how much you should be enjoying every day because of how quickly it passes and then poof, they are gone.
They also sometimes tell you about how every day is a miracle, which on that point I really can’t argue. Because yes, at the end of the day it is a damned miracle both of my children are alive after one has jumped from the kitchen counter to give the other a diamond cutter. We aren’t really sure how he gets up there, and can only assume hoover boards really do exist.
It is a miracle I haven’t been hauled out in a straight jacket after being told the same knock-knock joke for the seven-frillion and forty seventh time since lunch. Spoiler Alert: It’s that asshole Interrupting Cow again.
It is a miracle that our house is still standing after I tried to make those homemade, real fruit snack thingys from Pinterest and instead caught the bottom of a saucepan on fire. A general note: if you can cook with gelatin you are a certified witch, and your trickery should not be used to instill false confidence in us lay people via pretty Pinned pictures.
As I haul my children out of the grocery store, listening to my oldest tell me how much I don’t love her because I didn’t buy her the box of breakfast diabetes with the tiger on it, I can’t help but wonder, when I will look back at all this with a wistful look in my eyes? When will it be my turn to pop out of my lab by the milk substitutes and let other parents know how mediocre their parenting is because they aren’t savoring every poopy diaper and epic meltdown?
For now, I suppose I will have to settle for being the World’s Okayest Mom, and find joy in just getting to the end of each day with everyone’s limbs in tact, the house still standing, and not being forcibly removed from my home.
Yours Truly in Mediocrity,