Reblogged from Trying to be Good
(sorry there are a few bad words, but I liked it so much I had to share)
I just finished babysitting your baby today.
I have salmon stuck on my neck and in the crease under my left breast.
My eardrum is damaged due to high frequency screaming.
I had to hold her while I was peeing because from her perspective it
seemed like Satan himself would rape and kill her slowly if I put her
down thus I did not get the chance to wipe myself properly…
…no matter though as I am covered in a thick layer of sweat from
pushing the stroller up the hill so a bit more wet between the legs even
I washed my hair this morning but all of a sudden it looks like a stringy bag of shit pile.
I haven’t had a chance to eat anything except snatching a few cold peas from her snack pack and my head is pounding.
I watched her draw on her vulva with sidewalk chalk and I didn’t bother to read the ingredients to see if it was non-toxic.
I fed her a pizza crust to keep her occupied and I know you want her to be gluten-free.
I felt her shit herself and then I left her in her shitty diaper for when you get home.
My entire body is an exhausted heap of jangled muscles and burnt out nerves.
You were only gone for 3 hours.
I am sorry.
For judging you because your style went down the tubes.
For being annoyed when you forget to call me back.
For thinking you are not being a very good friend anymore.
For saying “I’ll lose all my baby weight, I’ll make the time.”
For telling my partner “we’ll be much sooooooo more relaxed about parenting than they are.”
For wondering why you don’t mind leaving the house looking like a drunk homeless 10-year-old.
For assuming you must be a hoarder now with your piles of clothes and teetering books and dirty plates
For calling your life chaotic.
For thinking that I will do it better and it will be easier.
For secretly considering your parenting techniques to be kinda’ weird.
Photo Credit: Martin Schoeller/Time Magazine
For agreeing that I won’t lose my creative focus when I have a kid.
For being frustrated when I watch you forget your keys every goddamn time you leave the house.
For wishing you could just feed him and talk to me about my next career move at the same time.
For not getting it. Any of it. At all.
You are a superhuman and I bow down to your grace and patience towards friends like me.
When I have a baby, I hope we get to hang out more. Maybe you can
wipe my crotch for me before he cracks his head on the bathroom tile.
Maybe I will have a chance to make you a cup of tea before she spills it
all over the floor.
Let’s smell the top of their heads together.
And we won’t care what our childless friends think of us because we both know that we know nothing now.
We have nothing left to prove.
And that is such a relief.