That dumb commercial "having a baby changes everything" drives me bonkers every time it flashes onto my television screen, causing me to scream (at least, in my head), "NO SHIT SHERLOCK!"
There were a lot of things I expected going into the parenting gig -- poopy diapers, jars of creepily-colored baby food, sleepless nights. But there are a select few things I'd never, EVER stopped to consider before popping three kids out of my delicate lady-bits.
Here they are.
- I'd have to hide The Good Stuff. Yeah, you know what I mean. The last chocolate chip cookie? The rest of Mommy's Medicine (read vodka)?
- Eventually, my roly-poly, chubby-cheeked shit machines were going to morph from being a sweet puddle of baby goo into a talking, breathing person who had the capacity to TALK BACK to me.
- I was going to have to explain to my formerly roly-poly, chubby-cheeked shit machines how, in fact, Mommy got ANOTHER baby growing inside her belly.
- I was THEN going to have to explain that, no, my formerly roly-poly, chubby-cheeked shit machine, the new baby wouldn't be exiting via my belly button (bonus points for creativity, though!) and pray like hell that I didn't have to tell them how babies were born.
- I was going to have to share. Everything. Personal space. Sleeping quarters. Clothes. Money. My own dinner. It's one thing to be all, "oh, there, there, kids, sharing is AWESOME," but we, as adults, have learned the truth: sharing sucks.
- I was going to be sick. For over 18 years. Straight. Hand-washing? Not even remotely effective against kid-germs. I'm considering buying a HazMat suit, but that's mostly wishful thinking.
- I would never use the bathroom alone again. Ever. Now, even the cats join me while I take a pee.
- I'd be bored to tears by the games kids want to play. Now I know why my own mother booted me out of the house and locked the door behind me each morning -- I was boring. My kids, much as I love those little germ-factories, are too.
- If you feed 'em, they keep growing. When they grow, they need new clothes. And clothes for an 11-year old don't induce the same type of ovulating that wee newborn clothes do.
- They begin to ... smell. Like their feet smell. While I loved gnawing on my newborn baby's feet, I'm pretty sure that the odor from my 11-year old's feet could sheer paint off walls.
What do YOU wish you'd known before you had kids?