When I was a kid, I used to say I was going to wait until I was 30 to get married. Then, a couple years later, I was going to have a kid or two, when I was all mature and stable and shit.

As you know, like most of my plans, that didn’t go well. I had a kid at 21 with a dude I had known for 3 months. Score!

So I realize my perspective may skew my understanding of the idea of “planning for a child,” or “waiting until you’re ready,” but I have to say, I find the whole process of “waiting until you’re ready” to be one of the most ridiculous endeavors ever invented, mostly because it’s an impossible task, and creates the horribly misguided idea that one can actually “prepare” for parenthood, or “become ready” for something that inherently negates any possibility of preparation because it involves a real live human baby.

It’s absolutely ridiculous. When was the last time you met a predictable human?

(Your mother DOES NOT COUNT.)

I’m not saying every 16-year-old should have a kid, or people without jobs or homes should be reproducing at random and hoping for the best. UM DUH. That’s way too much work. For them and for us.

What I’m saying is this: If you want a baby for real but you’re not doing it because you think a better time will come, let me be the first to tell you: THE TIME WILL NEVER COME.

You will never have enough money.

You will never have a stable enough marriage.

You will never feel grown-up enough to serve as the guiding light of hope and direction to a small innocent child who’s insane enough to think the sun rises and sets over your pert little ass.

Speaking of pert little asses, you will never be ready for pregnancy.

That’s a LIE! You’re ready now! Your weeping uterus is probably all “I must have baby,” which is precisely why you’re in this predicament in the first place.

But you won’t be ready to piss on yourself and do that throw-your-legs-over-the-edge-of-the-bed thing when you’re 8 months pregnant and need to get up for the 12^th time that night, to pee, and your partner’s next to you snoring, undisturbed, and you’re like “Maybe if I smothered him nobody would notice?”

You won’t be ready to not see your toes for a couple months, or the look in your partner’s eyes as your boobs expand like porn balloons. Do those exist? Whatever.

You won’t be ready for the day you can’t buckle your own goddamn sandals anymore.

And friends, you won’t be ready for the body contortions and noises that resonate from the depths of earth and your soul as you push a baby out of a barely participating vagina.

You will never feel “good enough.”

When you meet that baby, you will no longer suspect you aren’t good enough. You will KNOW IT, because how could anything be good enough for the first perfect creature ever born? (Incidentally, that whole “perfect creature” thing will totally disintegrate by age 2, but I digress.)

Your ducks may be all lined up now, honey, but they’ll fly like feathers in a tornado the day that baby enters your world. Try. Give it a shot. Try to wedge that newborn into YOUR schedule and parenthood into YOUR vision of “the way it should be” or “the way I intended it to pan out.” Try to mold your kid into just what you had in mind and your partner into the perfect other parent, and you, chip away at yourself until you carve yourself into The Perfect Mama.

And then find yourself some whiskey, benzodiazepines, and a good shrink, cause you’re GONNA NEED THEM.

Do I sound negative?

Good. I am.

I feel like there’s a lot of misconception about child-rearing, much of it arising from bullshit societal notions that:

a.)    Having kids is fulfilling. It’s not. Becoming a whole person and being true to yourself is fulfilling. Kids only serve as a substitute for self-fulfillment for people who haven’t figured that out yet. There’s a line in a Margaret Atwood book (The Handmaid’s Tale?) where this girl says to her mother: “I am not justification for your existence.” BOOM.

b.)    Having kids is noble. Nope. Not noble. Just reproductive. Saving kids from a burning building? That’s fucking noble.

c.)     Everybody wants kids, or should want kids, and if they don’t want kids they’re a self-centered asshole. The only people who “should” have kids are the people who WANT THEM. How is that complicated? Personally, some of the people I know who have chosen not to have children have done so because they are TOO SELFLESS to bring a kid into what they believed was not the best situation. Self-centered? Nooooo. You know what’s self-centered? Bringing a kid or 12 into the world and then acting like you did THEM a favor by birthing them, like you’re some sort of martyr for a choice you made. Though I feel sorry for myself on occasion just like the best of ‘em, my kids don’t owe me shit and neither does the rest of the world. I’m not special and neither are childless people. Wait, hold on…gimme a minute….okay here we go…

“You are not special. You’re not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We’re all part of the same compost heap. We’re all singing, all dancing crap of the world.”

d.)    People without kids are missing out on a life with depth and meaning. Well, I guess that depends on how you define “depth and meaning,” but as far as I can tell, a life of depth and meaning is that which a person defines as “deep” and “meaningful.” And parenthood, of all the fucking endeavors of the world, is not inherently “deep” and “meaningful.” In fact, it appears some parents are actually detracting from the good of the world by reproducing. It’s as if they’ve gone out of their way to REMOVE depth and meaning from parenthood. Wait. Sorry. Was that my outside voice? MY BAD.

e.)    A kid is this thing you add to your existing life. Now this one’s gonna get me in trouble, but check it out: You don’t ADD a kid to your life like some sort of really expensive accessory. A kid transforms your life into an entirely new life, whether or not you are participating in this transition. [If you’re confused as to why this will get me in trouble, I’ll tell ya: People, guided by companies making A LOT OF MONEY off the idea, have convinced themselves parenthood is something that can be predicted, controlled and navigated in pleasant ways if you only buy, read, and do the right things. What are the “right things?” The idea that parenthood is a giant shit-storm of ever-shifting ground (LIKE THE REST OF LIFE) terrifies people, so they get really mad when you say things that threaten their fragile construction of security.]

And so, here it is, my dear friends waiting for the day…talking talking talking about kids, and waiting for that glorious moment when all the stars align perfectly and there’s just not a single thing left undone: All the places have been visited, all youth expired, the pinnacle of marital felicity reached along with a near-Yogi state of self-awareness, calm, patience. You’re in the best health of your life. Your 401k has hit $200,000 and your house is half paid off. Your car has an oil change and your diet is totally organic.

Here’s the thing…you can keep waiting, or you can realize the kid you have will be the perfect kid for the mess of your life. The perfect little crazy being to fit like a glove over the glaring deficiencies you were sure would ruin you. Not to fix you. But to hang out with you, just as you are, if you let him in and drop the fucking act. Just BE who you are and see you had everything you needed already, and maybe you were always “ready,” or as ready as you’ll ever be, for this kid, the perfect one for your family.

When I was pregnant, my midwife used to tell me I was the perfect mother for this baby. I believe that to be true, though please don’t ask me to ever raise somebody else’s baby. My kids have grown accustomed to my insanity, THANKYOUVERYMUCH.

Like the missing piece you never knew was missing, your kid will just lock in and lock on and turn you into the human you had no idea you could become. And yet you’ll remain exactly the same, cause you are only you, after all, and your job is to love and support and teach until the day you let go again.

And no, you won’t be ready for that either. I sure as hell am not.

But if you want it, the universe is telling you: You’re already perfect for the kid you’re waiting for.

You’re a disaster. You will remain a disaster after your kid comes.

Together you will be disasters, together.

But you’ll be in love, and it’ll be alright, and maybe one day you’ll wonder what all the fuss was about.

I mean it is, after all, just a real live human being.

So today is the first day of “Breastfeeding Awareness Month.”

As I was thinking about that, I started thinking that there’s a time to be reasonable and thoughtful and understanding. There’s a time for conversation and negotiation and peaceful discussion.

There’s a time to talk about things like adults, listen intently to both sides, sit across from one another to calmly discuss viewpoints.

But there’s also a time to whip your fucking tits out and talk about it later.

Or never.

Ladies and gentleman, we have blown past the moment of discussion. We have no choice but to move into full frontal nudity.

Oh wait that’s right. Breastfeeding isn’t full frontal nudity. So maybe that’s not the best approach.

Whatever. You know when I nurse my babies I generally go in from the top. And if my breast flesh offends you, well then sweetheart, you are my reason for doing it again and again and again and again until eventually, maybe after the millionth time you and your kind have seen it, it won’t quite shock you anymore.

Yeah, I’m talking to you, people who think women shouldn’t breastfeed in public.

I’m talking to you, people who think women should use a cover.

But I’m tired of discussing. I’m tired of the back-and-forth convos with misogynistic douchebags with their heads shoved so far up their asses they can’t tell the difference between breastmilk and whiskey.

So anyway, during the month of August, donned Breastfeeding Awareness Month by the U.S. Health & Human services, we’re supposed to “raise awareness” of the benefits of breastfeeding to increase breastfeeding rates and help Americans becomes more accepting of breastfeeding women.

But as far as I can tell, most people agree that “breast is best.” Or maybe it’s not “best” for everybody, but most people can agree that it’s damn good. It’s where that breast can occur that’s still, somehow, up for debate, and that is where the “awareness” needs to rise. The “awareness” of why women should be able to breastfeed in public wherever, however and whenever they damn well please is “the question.”

But really, the only people who need their awareness raised need their intelligence raised.

Logic, people. Give it a shot:

You say it’s about “modesty” and “self-respect.” LIES, motherfucker, LIES.

If that were true you’d be losing your shit over the thousands of scantily clad sex objects plastered all over television and magazines. And yet, you are oddly quiet on the subject.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME SOME WOMAN WAS THROWN OUT OF A RESTAURANT FOR WEARING A SHIRT TOO LOW?

Or those shorts that allow butt cheeks to peek out the bottom?

So your argument is false. It is not that you have a problem with breasts being exposed. Rather, you have a problem with breasts being exposed for a purpose other than the sexual satisfaction of men. If you would just THINK for like two seconds you’d see that nobody loses their shit over the widespread use of women’s bodies as pieces of meat for the consumption of men. It is only when that body becomes the woman’s and her baby’s, ALONE, that she somehow becomes “offensive.”

What’s offensive is not the breasts being exposed, it’s the breasts being exposed for a purpose other than the enjoyment of the patriarchy.

It’s the BIOLOGY of it that kills you.

It’s the primal femininity of it.

It’s that the breast becomes a vehicle for child’s nutrition as opposed to patriarchal pleasure, and this violates the misogynistic social contract you’ve signed. Yeah, you know, the one women have been battling against for 150 years?

Yeah that one.

I’m talking to you, women on BabyCenter and reddit and wherever your breed of idiot hangs out, ranting about women nursing in public and how they’re “disgusting” and “immodest” and “making a production.” (Well, you are right. Some of us are in fact “making a production,” but most American women are just nursing because their kid needs to, um, nurse.)

Do you know you’re spewing the ancient Puritanical crap you’ve been fed by a twisted society? You think you’re thinking for yourself, but you’re not. You are merely regurgitating the messages you’ve been fed, like a brain-dead sheep, programmed to see yourself and all women through the eyes of a society that commodifies them and their bodies.

You say it’s a “private act” like using the bathroom. Really, that’s weird. I’m 99% sure neither urine nor shit have ever come out of my nipples.

And we are feeding babies. As in, food. Eating. Consumption. Is your lunch private? Is bottle-feeding private?

No. Well then, exactly.

You say it involves a breast and breasts are sexual, like the vagina or penis…and we sure don’t whip those fuckers out at random!

First of all, read the above regarding patriarchy and sex. Secondly, breasts are only “sexual” because our society has made them so. They should be treated like an elbow or a knee or a thigh. If YOU see them as something else, more power to you, but you can’t expect the rest of us to cater to your ignorance. Breasts are not actually attached to women solely to serve the erotic interests of men. Just like the vagina, they serve a biological purpose! It’s called “feed the offspring!”

Basically, though I’m clearly ranting (and damn does it feel good), I genuinely believe the only way to change this conversation  is to shove our boobs in the faces of these idiots so many times it becomes normal to them.

(I’m speaking metaphorically, people. If you actually shove your breast in the face of a stranger there’s a good chance you’ll get arrested. Or a marriage proposal. But probably arrested. Word to the wise, baby. You know I’m always lookin’ out for ya.)

Or, their kids at least. (Which reminds me of the weirdest argument of all: Kids shouldn’t see women nursing. Okay just take a moment and realize how insane that is. Kids shouldn’t “see” the way kids have been fed since the beginning of time.)

Maybe I sound crass, irrational. Out of control and unreasonable.

Yes, well. I am.

There is a point at which conversation dies and only action speaks. There is a time when you’ve just got to do the thing they’re telling you not to do.

I’m so tired of the women getting kicked out of pools and restaurants. I’m so tired of new mothers absolutely distraught because they can’t figure out how to avoid nursing in public. I’m sick of women feeling like they’re “exposing themselves” when their baby needs to nurse.

I’m sick of women nursing on toilets.

I’m sick of women having to THINK about NURSING at all.

I’m sick of women giving up breastfeeding entirely because it’s just too fucking hard to navigate never doing it in public.

I’m sick of society telling us we should breastfeed, but then adding the disclaimer “as long as we don’t have to see it.”

I’m sick of tits being paraded EVERY WHERE all the time in every corner of all media, but we’re shamed for nursing in public.

And my god, I’m sick of people telling us where and how and when we can nurse the babies we birthed, the ones we are working so hard to love and teach and hold, to grow into healthy strong capable human beings. We have a really hard, important job, and we don’t need MUST NOT SHOW NIPPLE EVER added to our list of responsibilities.

Get over yourself, America.

They’re boobs.

They feed babies.

You’re gonna pull through this one.

I’m not saying don’t use a cover. If you’re more comfortable doing that, then cool. What I’m saying is this: If you use a cover begrudgingly, knock that shit off.

Tell the world to go fuck itself. Learn your rights and stand up for them.

And I’m not breastfeeding any more, but if I were, you can think of me, sitting next to you, going in from the top and inviting the world to bite me. Ha. Nice pun.

And since my baby girl weaned herself at two (a year ago), I can only offer you these photos. Facebook likes to take photos like these down. So does Instagram. These photos will surely offend people: Look at that woman! Exposing herself like that! Disgusting! Immoral!

Immodest!

How dare she?

Does she have no self respect?

I THINK I SEE A MILLIMETER OF NIPPLE, people. NIPPLE.

Please, once you’ve stopped writing your angry comment, take a moment to kiss my giant, proud, once-milky breast.

Cheers!

Anyway, if you want, throw your nursing shots up on Instagram and tag it #renegadenursing. Then we can all join together as crazy nursing misfits.

Ha. Yes. So radical. Feeding our babies.

When will the insanity end?

the “toddler supposed to be nursing but not” photo!

Sometimes we nurse and mama’s kinda over it

From the top at home, from the top in public. Too bad I don’t have any of those shots.

oh lord, the chubby hand.

boob as big as her head, that’s what I’m talking about

tell me this isn’t heaven

I miss it. I do.

OH, the gorgeous, blissful milky grin!

these kids are clearly TRAUMATIZED!

Happy Breastfeeding Awareness Month, friends!

Now let’s piss some people off by feeding our babies!

Yay!

Occasionally I get a comment or email from some “well-meaning” human explaining to me that I really should stop saying such horrible things about my kids and being a mother because my kids “will read it someday” and it will “hurt their feelings” or “make them sad” to find out their mom felt that way.

And I see this attitude throughout the internet, in comments and articles critiquing those “shit-talking” mamas.

Yesterday I received a comment that encapsulates this perspective so well I have to share the whole thing: “Janelle you are trying so hard. I do wonder though, after reading some posts ( which do make me laugh!) how your children will feel reading them in the future: for example the one about your ‘ insane toddler’ or the one where you admit you hate playing with them. Lots of mum’s think this but no one actually says it. You think it’s just a vent and no harm done but you can never truly erase things from the Internet. For your children to one day know how you really felt about their childhood is so sad. Please write some more content your kids can be proud of. I say this with love so that one day you don’t have a poor relationship with your grown children. They deserve better than that and so do you. Think what you are sacrificing for others’ cheap laughs. I hope one day family life will bring you the joy it truly can be. All the best.”

Now, I have no interest in criticizing this commenter in particular. We could attack her for being condescending and oddly interested in the life of a stranger (which is all totally true, of course), but what I want to look at is the attitude behind this comment. It’s everywhere. She is mouthing a viewpoint deeply ingrained in our society.

And I want to tear this shit down because it’s nonsense, and it’s ruining futures.

To me, the most terrifying part of this comment is this: “Lots of mums think this but no one actually says it.”

Oh, lord.

This ain’t good. So what you’re saying is: Though many mothers experience the struggles you talk about, think and feel the same way, they have internalized the societal expectation that they SILENCE themselves for the good of their children.

They have learned to SHUT THE FUCK UP because they have uteri and have “made the choice” to join the sacred tribe of motherhood and therefore, they uphold the sacred values of that calling while simultaneously erasing themselves on its behalf.

Erased.

We don’t let our kids know “how we really felt about their childhood” because we do not matter.

But check this out, my friend: How is dishonesty and lying and the perpetuation of mysogynistic expectations GOOD for my kids?

How am I doing my daughters and sons any favor whatsoever by pretending reality is something other than it is? Hey kids, join me in this falsely constructed world, because society says it’s the way we’re supposed to act. Even though it’s not true, and WE ALL KNOW IT’S NOT TRUE, we do it anyway…just because!

Haven’t you blissed-out mamas ever heard of Sylvia Plath? Haven’t you people thought about WHY it is that so many women suffer from post-partum depression, kill their kids, lose their minds, SNAP one day over a batch of gluten-free cupcakes?

And all the family is dead.

Do you ever think your blissed-out bullshit attitude contributes to women hiding themselves in shame as they pretend and pretend and pretend it’s all good and right and fun and rewarding…until they can’t pretend anymore….and Boom. Done.

They’re dying inside. But they can’t say a word.

Because they’re mothers.

And motherhood is sacred, you know. And they might hurt their kids someday. And they love those kids so desperately they wouldn’t take that chance. So they hold on, in silence, with bowed heads and contrite hearts but a fire in their gut that won’t stop burning, a red, raging, insane mass — because maybe they’ve been lied to, or maybe they’re the only defective mother in the world – the one who isn’t infinitely fulfilled and hates playing Monopoly with her kids and thinks PTA meetings are pits of despair and can’t seem to get the house clean and organized when everybody else can..right? She walks around the schoolyard with a smile and a gagged mouth and freshly washed capris, but she pinched her baby that morning. The truth sits like bacteria eating her soul, a little more each day.

But she can’t say a word, because it might hurt her kids.

She tells herself she’s sacrificing for her children. She holds on with all her might to society’s promise that this is what’s best for them and they’ll thank her someday and they’ll be good people in a good world she’s made.

But one day they’re gone, moved on with their lives and yeah, they love her but now she’s 45 or 50 years old and her truth has never been spoken and her life’s half over and all those kids don’t even know.  They’re in a new place but she’s just there, STILL. Wondering why, and how it is she was erased just as she was starting to live.

She probably wonders if she could have told the truth after all, and been a little freer, lived a little stronger, maybe helped her daughter who seems to be struggling with the same shit now, but she can’t say anything because it’s too late now. It’s just too late now.

So they both go on, alone, thinking things but not saying them…

You know what? This is HER LIFE TOO and she is a PERSON not a SHELL. She is a PERSON who acts as MOTHER. She is a mother though not ONLY MOTHER.

You’ve tried to make her “only mother.” You’ve tried to eliminate her.

And you’d sooner see her die than speak her truth.

Well let me tell you something, you fucking rainbow ribbon mamas walking around with butterflies of love flying out your asses: You’re killing people.

Not only that, you’re delusional. You’d rather live in a fucking fantasy world than face the truth, which officially makes you a damn nutcase.

Put this in your pipe and smoke it: I’m doing my kids a FAVOR by telling them the truth. That way, when my girl has her first baby and feels that death of self, maybe she won’t suffer quite like I did. Maybe she’ll know she can call her mom and talk to her about the real, the grit, the nasty, raw ugly truth.

And maybe I can help her with the truth of my own life.

Maybe my son will give me a call in 15 years and say “Mom, I think my wife is going through what you did. She won’t get out of bed and it’s scaring me. She says she doesn’t want the baby. Mom, what should I do? How did you get through this? I want to help her.”

And he’ll have the power and courage and knowledge to face the nasty, raw, ugly, life-saving gorgeous truth. That’s what I want to give.

Why?

BECAUSE IT’S REAL, moron. And therefore it is right. It may be harder, but it’s right. And it’s the only way to become free. Why waste our time devoted to a fantasy? Why waste our lives perpetuating lies, even though we have daily evidence of reality, of the truth? Why do we justify a constant disconnect between what we’re experiencing and what we portray to the world?

Is there a faster track to insanity?

Maybe you don’t find motherhood difficult. Maybe you love it through and through and it works for you 100%. If that’s the case for you, rock the fuck on!

But don’t tell me I should adopt your experience even though it isn’t mine, that I should lie and cover up my truth because it might “hurt” my kids someday, as if you have some monopoly on motherhood because you happen to be living an American-approved Hallmark movie.

Sometimes I hate motherhood. Other times I don’t. How is that hurtful? And even if it is hurtful, who gives a shit?

It’s true.

I don’t care if honesty is the “best” way to parent. I don’t care if telling the truth results in the “best” outcomes. All I know is this: THIS IS WHO I AM.

And I love my kids with every fiber of my being. My love for them pulses like blood through my veins, like the very blood that sustains my life.

And if that’s true, which it is, why would I ever doubt the validity of my occasional loathing for them? That’s true too, and it’s happening in me, and I’m an alright human who loves her kids.

It isn’t wrong because I’m not wrong. I am a human being with a good heart and strong mind, trying my best in a world I barely understand and I’ll tell you right now I would give my life for my kids. Since that’s true, I have nothing to prove.

So why would I shirk from the REST of the truth? Why would I admit the loving part but deny the rest?

Because I’m scared? Because I think it’s wrong? Because it would break my grown children’s hearts and souls to know their mama loved them desperately AND occasionally considered launching herself into oncoming traffic to escape the sound of their bickering?

No, that can’t be it, because, hmmm…

OH YEAH THAT’S RIGHT.

It’s exactly how they feel about their fucking children.

I “offend” people, a lot.

I don’t give a shit, a lot.

I’m not a cold-hearted person. I’m actually quite sensitive. But when people write “This offends me” or “I’m offended by this,” the only thing I think to myself is “It is impossible for me to convey how little I care.” Not because I’m evil (though that may be true), but rather because I just don’t understand what the hell that’s got to do with me.

Recently I wrote a post referring to “childless” people. I used that word because I wanted to refer to people without children, and “people without children” is three words whereas “childless” is one. And since I’m into the whole brevity thing, I decided on the latter. If you hop over and read the comment thread, you’ll see numerous comments clarifying that “childless” is an offensive, politically incorrect term. The word is “childFREE.” ChildLESS implies a void.

See now this is precisely the moment where they lose me. Yes, of course “childless” implies a void. In English, when you add the word “less” to the end of another word, it means “without” that thing. Hence, without children, which is precisely what I’m trying to say. Forgive me, but I’m not going to INVENT some new word because you find the actual word unpalatable.

I know there are people suffering from infertility, and this word must pierce them, and that makes me feel sad, but can you imagine if we kept changing up English every seven minutes to accommodate every individual experience ever known to humankind? I didn’t set out to hurt people’s feelings. I was just writing. And I’m not particularly invested in the word “childless.” But the fact is I’m not responsible for crafting ideas that are pleasant and palatable and gentle on every version of human on earth today.

I will always hurt people, somehow, and they will always hurt me.

The reason some words are replaced by others (“humankind” for “mankind” or “artificial” or “human-made” for “manmade”) is that they are inaccurate.  They erase women. Women are also humans. And unless you know without a doubt that not a single female played a part in the creation of whatever’s in question, then you are misspeaking to call it “manmade.”

But I wasn’t misspeaking. I was merely pissing people off and hurting feelings.

And really, in the end, as harsh as this sounds, who gives a fuck about feelings?

You, your spouse, the people close to you. Feelings are super useful in indicating to us that something’s wrong, that we need to take some action. Internal unrest is a great indicator that our feet or mouths need to do something: Leave, tell the truth, clean up a past action or wrong. Talk about something. Call somebody. Click off this bitch’s webpage.

But people (whiners) of the fucking internet, your feelings are not sufficient evidence that the world should do something different.

In other words, it’s not our problem you’re “offended.”

Let’s think about this for a moment. You’re offended. You’ve taken offense. You announce that on a website or comment thread (or to a live human being) as if it means something, as if it’s some grand proclamation with relevance and importance, but all you’re really saying is this: “I don’t know you and you don’t know me, and we’ve had two totally different lives, but your existence is not validating mine, and that makes me sad, and therefore you should stop doing what you’re doing.”

Do you see how insane that is?

“I’ve had a unique experience of life and my feelings reflect that experience but you don’t, and so YOU’RE WRONG! Stop it! I’m hurt! Wahhhh!”

The problem is not that you’re “offended.” The problem is that you think the rest of the world should care, do something about it, change its behavior to accommodate your inner self.

I hate to break it to you, but your feelings are your own. They’re not mine. They’re not his or hers or theirs or the douchebag writing that article. They are YOURS. Own it, dude. Deal with it.

Every time I hear somebody say “I used to be an alcoholic but now I drink moderately” I want to bash them in the face and my heart sinks into my toes, because that ignorance furthers the plight of actual alcoholics, who of course can’t safely touch alcohol in any form. And there are people dying in the fucking gutters from this disease, and it sure isn’t helping to have people calling themselves alcoholics announcing that they’ve seen the light and “learned to drink reasonably.”

But I know that because I am an alcoholic, because I was dying in a gutter (well actually it was a beige Ford Taurus but who’s counting?). My feelings are hurt because I know – no, I’ve experienced something –this person has not. But that’s not their problem, is it? It’s mine. If I really want to be helpful, perhaps I attempt to explain my perspective, if the opportunity arises. But simply proclaiming “You offend me!” is about the most useless, narcissistic, entitled and meaningless statement ever.

Am I so important that the world should bow and shift and change because my inner self is wounded?

Poor inner child.

Grow the fuck up.

It must be frustrating to troll around the internet endlessly announcing the offense you take to this and that only to find a bunch of unfeeling bags looking at you like “Yes, and?”

But check it out: People find gay people “offensive.” People once found integrated schools “offensive.” People find people of other races, ethnicities and sexes “offensive.” People find breastfeeding in public “offensive.” People find uncovered heads “offensive.” I could go on all day.

Do you see my point here?

The fact that you find something “offensive” cannot possibly mean anything to anybody other than YOU, because if it did, if the world really had to respond to every offense ever taken by every person to ever walk this earth, well come on, you know that’s ridiculous. Nobody would be able to say or write or do anything. The world would turn into some giant vanilla ego-stroking orgy. And there’s no way that’s any fun.

So if that’s true, if quite clearly the world can’t respond to every offended person on the planet, WHAT, dare I ask, makes you so fucking special?

Oh, yes. That’s right. You’re not. You’re only that special in your own head, and possibly your mom’s.

So once again, we’re back to “your problem.”

My problem.

So please, people of the interwebs getting offended all the time and sharing it with us (and then getting more offended because nobody cares), for the love of logic and effectiveness, move beyond your damn feelings for a minute and look at what’s causing them.

Tell me why I’m wrong.

Tell me what I’m not seeing.

Tell me what you’ve experienced that I have not, leading you to see the world differently, from a different place in a different way, and maybe, just maybe, even an asshole like me will take a moment to think about what you’re saying.

Because to begin with, you’re actually, finally, saying something.

So go you.

And now, a moment of silence in reverence for Stephen Fucking Fry. The man-god.

Occasionally I come across a blog post saying something like this “So all my friends are having babies and I just really don’t understand why they’ve all lost themselves. I mean does having a baby mean the end of life? Of adulthood? Why do they put their kids first all the time? Why can’t they hang out with friends like they used to, drink some cocktails, GET A LIFE?”

I read a blog recently by some childless bag – wait, I didn’t mean that – I meant “blogger” who was simply appalled, aghast, offended, by the way her friends had just morphed into these pathetic adult imposters, consumed by their children, simply lifeless. I would link to it but I’m afraid you all would slaughter her with your wit and intelligence. That was not a sarcastic statement.

I’ll be honest, the first thing I wanted to do was rant like a psycho, but I’m not going to. Because I’m above that. Right?

Oh of course I’m not. I think I’ve proven that enough times.

However, in an entirely uncustomary gesture, I’m going to give people like her the benefit of the doubt and assume they aren’t simply pricks, but instead really just don’t get it.

Yeah, I know. Mother Theresa and whatnot.

So, as a sort of public service announcement to people who write things like the aforementioned, I’m going to provide some info on the topic, hoping to help them understand how their new-parent friends morphed into such despicably boring, haggard versions of their former selves.

First of all, childless people who can’t understand the degradation of your friends (NOT ALL CHILDLESS PEOPLE, OBVIOUSLY), I need to clear something up, right out of the gate: Most of the time you’re hanging out with us, WE’RE FUCKING FAKING IT. We only LOOK normal. We’re not normal. We’re losing our shit. But we don’t want you to see that because you haven’t ruined your life yet (didn’t mean that either) and probably won’t understand. You’re still living in a place where things like “dinner dates” are enjoyable, or at least have the potential to be enjoyable.

Allow me to illustrate:

You want us to “hang out with friends” more often, presumably without kids, right? Did I get that right? Okay, check this out.

We’re meeting you and your significant other for dinner. Dinner on a Friday evening at a restaurant 45-minutes away, at 7pm. That sounds, easy, RIGHT? Well yes it is.

For you.

Here’s, perhaps, your experience: Come home from work, screw around on the internet, have a glass of wine, a snack, hop in the shower, bathe yourself, get out, towel off, peruse the closet, get dressed. Have your partner get ready. Pour another class of wine, maybe chat with a friend on speakerphone while you put on make-up, do your hair, put on shoes, get in the car at 6pm so you don’t have to rush…order a cocktail when you get there. Have dinner with friends, go out for a drink after, dance a little to work off dinner. Come home around 1am, have sex, sleep til 9am or 10am. Wake up to some coffee, chat about how sad it is that your friends have all “lost themselves” after they have kids.

That, above, is pretty much the way every evening of mine looked before I had kids (and was going out with friends).

Do you know what this little soiree looks like for us?

Here you go.

Dinner date with another couple at 7pm on a Friday at a restaurant 45 minutes away for a couple with a toddler and a baby…

Begin worrying about it approximately 5 minutes after the date is made because:

Who the fuck is going to watch the kids?

1. Grandparents? Best option, but they live 30 minutes away, which will make getting to the restaurant in time impossible because there’s Friday traffic. You could leave work early but not really because you already did it twice this month for baby doctor appointments. Plus, after dinner you’ll have to drive super far and Childless Friends are probably going to want drinks after…
2. Hire a babysitter? Well, at $20.00/hour, from 6pm until at least 11pm, that’s $100, which will make this evening (not including gas) at least $200. Holy SHIT!
3. One of us goes and the other stays home? No, then our Childless Friends will think we’ve lost ourselves and can’t “date” anymore, and all those stupid online forums say you simply MUST “date” your husband if you want the marriage to last. DAMNITALLTOHELL.

Guess we’ll go with babysitter. Hire the babysitter.

Spend the next two weeks going about your life, completely forgetting about the dinner date because life is insane and chaotic and never stops, until that afternoon when the reminder pops up on your iPhone and you almost wet your pants in fear (shoulda done those kegels!).

Race from work to daycare, call husband fifty times to remind him of the damn dinner date because you KNOW he’s forgotten. Plus, he was up all night with the baby who’s teething so he’ll definitely not be into this. Holy shit he’s teething! OMG I’m leaving my baby when he’s teething!

I can’t do it.

Call husband to announce teething and discuss how the hell you’re going to leave an insane infant with a non-family-member. Realize your husband has no opinion on the subject. DEMAND A DIVORCE IMMEDIATELY (in your head).

Figure out on your own what to do (as always, I mean seriously): baby Tylenol. Remember you used the last of it. Remember husband was supposed to buy some yesterday.

Ask husband. Hear “I forgot.”

KICK HIM IN THE BALLS. (in your head). Tell him to get Tylenol on the way home and you can’t live under these conditions anymore. Answer approximately 750 questions from your toddler girl as you drive home trying to figure out the maelstrom ahead of you. Pull in the driveway. Leave all the kids’ daycare stuff (bags bottles, nap mat sheet, 12 pounds of paperwork, art work, etc.) in the car because you can’t handle it.

Walk in the door, realize you left one of the dogs in the house so there’s piss on the kitchen floor. The toddler just walked in it. It’s 5:35. Freak out because it’s 5:35.

Try to plug toddler into television. Nurse pissed off infant. Make sure there’s pumped milk in the freezer. O thank god, two bags. Hear the husband come home. Want to punch him in the face.

Give baby to husband and get in the shower. Remember you haven’t shaved in three weeks and the only dress you have that fits your post-partum body is knee-length, which requires shaving but THERE’S NO TIME. Consider other clothes. None. Tights? Yeah right.

Shave. Wonder how to do your hair. Wonder how long it’s been. Wonder if you even have a blow-dryer.

Hear your baby screaming. Try to block it out.

Babysitter arrives. Get out of the shower while yelling instructions to the babysitter through the door. Wonder why the hell your husband isn’t getting ready. Yell at him too. Wonder if you have any clean underwear.

Put on Spanx, nursing pads and the dress. Look for shoes. Realize there’s only one shoe. Remember toddler playing in the closet this morning so you could take care of the baby. Holy fuck the toddler has REMOVED THE SHOE.

The only dress shoes I have!

Mayday! Mayday! I’m missing a shoe. It’s been deposited somewhere by a TODDLER, which means it’s in the ONLY PLACE IN THE WORLD you’d NEVER think it will be, possibly in the toilet.

Run around the house like a madwoman looking for the godforsaken shoe, find it in the dog crate, chewed by the other bastard canine.

Put on shoes that don’t go with the dress at all, realize Childless Friends will think you’ve lost all fashion sense. Realize you have.

See that it’s 6:10. Squeal.

Freak out at your husband. Notice he’s dressed, but wearing a shirt that needs about 20-minutes of ironing. Also observe he hasn’t showered even though he’s an ironworker. (Wait. Maybe that’s just me.)

Bolt out the door anyway, leaving behind a forlorn toddler and a baby who’s teething and OMG the dog piss on the floor and shit I forgot to tell the babysitter about the Tylenol and potty-training and not to put the breast milk in the microwave – wait, I told her that, right? – I mean she’s done it before. Look down and see baby vomit.

On the only dress you have that fits.

Wipe it off. Tell yourself breast milk puke doesn’t smell that bad.

Get in the car, start driving, spend the whole trip on the phone with the baby sitter, giving her details you forgot and trying to apply make-up.

Arrive at the restaurant at 7:10, smiling calmly with your hand in your husband’s, ready to “enjoy a relaxing, adult evening.” Act pulled-together, happy to be there, adult, social.

“How are you guys? How are the kids?”

“We’re great! It’s so great to see you! It’s just so great to be OUT, having a LIFE!”

Want to vomit as you realize your baby is at home, teething, without you.

Go through dinner…enjoying yourself, sort of, but also kind of faking it, because honesty will scare these people away and possibly result in the discontinuation of humanity. I mean who’s going to have kids when they realize The Truth?

Wait, was that my outside voice? Totally didn’t mean that.

So there, people sans kids wondering why we’re such losers, does this clear anything up?

Maybe you see two adults who’ve added this baby to their lives, like an accessory, like a pet, like this new cute thing you carry around when you want it and drop when you don’t.

That’s what you see.

We, however, are living something different.

We are having fundamentally different experiences of reality.

At every moment. In every interaction. We may look normal, we may look right there with ya, but you have NO IDEA HOW MUCH WORK it took to get ourselves to where we sit right now, in this restaurant, dressed, without kids…

So please, don’t hate, when after a bottle or two of wine you and your Childless Cohort suggest a cocktail at this great place down the road and we look at you with a smile, trying to muster the energy, remembering the babysitter money rolling down the bowl of the toilet, and the toddler snoozing in her big-girl bed, and the baby…who could be crying…wait, do I have a text from the babysitter? – and the exhaustion, of the new life, the priorities that have shifted.

Don’t hate, just see, that you aren’t the most important thing in our lives anymore, and frankly, neither is that damn cocktail.

Also, we’re really fucking tired. Like really, really really tired. Like a tired that rests on our bones, all the time.

And there’s no sleeping in for those “adult imposters.”

You know, those people with “no life,” raising life, providing life, trying to adjust to a new life, remembering their old life, with people like you in it, kind of wishing we could go back there, when things were simpler and easier and more glamorous, and there was leisure and after-dinner cocktails, and…

then again, maybe not.

Nope, no life. No life at all.