You don’t like my kid, bro?

There is an anti-baby-slash-having-kids movement going on in the world today. And if I had the capacity or time to care about stupid crap then it would probably bother me. Well, I guess it’s bothering me enough to write a blog post about it. Let’s stop splitting hairs.

Now maybe this aforementioned movement has been around forever. But now as a mother and avid user of social media I have just recently become a [reluctant] addressee. I’m not smacking strangers in the face with my kid’s pictures or artwork or soiled diapers, but when these people find out I’m a mom, they feel the need to smugly declare their aversion to miniature people. “[in the voice of Lovey Howell] I’m never going to have children. I cherish my freedom.” OR “kids are weird looking and unproductive members of society”.  Well that’s nice, as I’m holding my toddler upside down and she’s kicking me in the ear repeatedly and trying to pull my pants around my ankles. I’ve always wanted to respond, “Boy I wish YOUR parents had the same idea.” Instead I just nod and hope that my little bundle of joy sharts so I can aim it at them.

Say hello to my little friend

Say hello to my little friend

When I was seven months pregnant, I actually had some self-important rube (who informed me in this very same exchange that he and his wife would NEVER want children) ask me to give him five reasons why I wanted to have a baby. Really? I wanted to do the Lucy Van Pelt thing and count off my fingers into a fist. Here are five good reasons, butthole. But instead I told him that I skipped a month of birth control and the rhythm method DOES NOT work. Those two nifty little bullet points were going to have to do for Mr. Needledick.

In this day and age, everyone feels entitled to share and overshare their opinions. Which is fine, it’s totally fine. Freedom of speech and all that stuff. Want kids, don’t want kids, it really has no effect on me. But just as you are entitled to your opinion, I am also entitled to not be choked with it. So go ahead and drive your Chrysler Town & Country bespattered with stickers announcing that you are pro-life and that “the pill kills”. Or continue rolling your eyes while my daughter has a meltdown in the pet care aisle because I will not buy her a flea collar. Whatever your stance on what has happened or what will happen in my uterus or your uterus or that bag lady over there’s uterus, just leave me the hell out of it.

Tact is a four letter word

I try to be a polite person, believe it or not. I try and I try and I try. Even in the place where manners go to die: a crowded grocery store. It can get a mite difficult from time to time because I always seem to encounter at least one of three types of moron. Firstly, there are those people who are not aware of anyone else in the store, or the world for that matter. Just walking around with their heads up their asses and getting in everyone’s way. I don’t understand how these rubes don’t get into tragic accidents constantly. When you walk around like that, like you’re blindfolded or something, you’re bound to run into a bicyclist or fall into a well or what have you. Open up your face, loser.

And then there is the group of people, mostly women, who feel the need to glare at me. What are you looking at? They do this hard stare while contorting their face into something awful like I just flushed their Xanax down the toilet. There are plenty of colorful products on the shelves that demand your attention instead. So my kid is gnawing on an avocado through the plastic produce bag; that doesn’t give you the right to throw around the stink eye like that. You should be happy that she’s into heart healthy foods.

Even this chicken has manners.

Even this chicken has manners.

But what really gets my goat is when someone responds to my “pardon me” with a “YOU’RE FINE.” Oh, I’m fine? I’m FINE? It’s your ugly face that’s been breathing all over the box of GoGurt I’ve been standing here for ten minutes waiting to retrieve and I’m fine. You might as well stomp on my foot and throw sand in my eyes. I hate you.

Tact is an antiquated notion these days. Manners are out the damn window. I’ve observed that there seems to be a direct relationship between people who feel that they can say whatever they want to whomever and the belief that pajamas are acceptable out-of-the-house apparel. It’s shocking. I’ll show you the pie chart. There’s a saying now, “I’m just doin’ me.” All the cool kids are using it. I’d love to tell those people to go do themselves. Hard. But I have manners. So let me get this straight, if we’re just “doin’ ourselves” then it is perfectly acceptable for me to tell you that you smell like scrambled eggs and you can’t spell. My advice: 1) a little tact goes a long way 2)the golden rule blah blah blah and 3) stop talking and spring for a pair of Wranglers, for the love of God. I can see your saggy underpants through your pajama bottoms. At 2:30pm.

And a quick tangent: since the typed word is our prevalent form of communication these days, it is so sad that nobody can fucking spell. People, the computer or smartphone or whatever you type on TELLS you that your words are spelled wrong; sometimes it will even correct it for you. Couldn’t be any easier. Doesn’t even require you to crack a dictionary. The red squiggly line under 78% of what you just typed isn’t an angry underline. It’s not conveying your fury to the rest of the morons on that comment thread. It’s telling you that you are dumb. Put down your iPhone and pick up some flashcards.