Had to post thi
If the author has a problem, I'll certainly take it down. She can e-mail me at kathleenie_beenie[at]yahoo[dot]com, or simply post a comment here (I make no guarantees on how often I check my e-mail). Here's the link, but I'm not sure if it's a regular column, I'm not sure if the text will still be there tomorrow, so I've done ye olde copye/payste. And I do feel the need to add the required disclaimer - yes, I read the Brats! page. Yes, I agree with just about every word in this article. No, I don't hate kids. I don't even dislike them. As a matter of fact, I LOVE them. I plan on having a few. I just can't stand when people don't see fit to raise them in a way that will have them grow up nice, respectable, respectful human beings who don't suffer from the delusion that the world revolves around them and who will at least attempt to be productive members of society, or at the very least, positive additions to it, not detractors from it. And now, without further ado:
Parental Guidance
by Erin Dailey
I don’t hate babies, okay? Let’s just get that clear. They’re relatively cute. I mean, the majority of them. I mean, they’re not always BORN cute, but most of them wind up mildly adorable by about five months. They’re pudgy, giggly, curious, and they only smell bad on the rare occasion. Babies are okay.
I’m not even all that un-fond of children. From about age two to about age five, they can be a bit of a handful (if by "handful" you mean "whiny, annoying, messy, and cursed with an ability to put anything remotely resembling a food item into their drooling, gaping maws") but they’re not without merits. They learn swear words quickly and they blurt them out at really inappropriate times. That’s wicked good fun. And you can dress them up in clown pants and paisley-print halter-tops and not only will they NOT argue with you about their unfashionable ensemble, they will actually REQUEST to add their uncle’s ten-gallon cowboy hat to the outfit. That rules.
So. Babies? Cute. Kids? Funny. Parents? Suck ASS.
Not all parents suck, of course. The majority of them are bearable, if not enjoyable. No, I’m talking about THOSE parents. You know the ones. They make your teeth itch and the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. They make you wish you had a baby rattle loaded with bullets. Or, at least, a Barney doll with a metal brick in his butt you could beat them with.
In short, they make you never want to have a child. EVER. Because if children can turn rational, mature, sane adults into the fuckwits I see around town on a regular basis, then I am definitely having my tubes cut, tied, and Super-Glu’d together as soon as is humanly possible.
As far as I can tell, there are five subsets of Parents from Hell. See if you can recognize any of them.
THE POWER PARENTS
They’re perfect. In every way. They have glossy hair, shiny teeth, smooth tans and overall stunningly healthy good looks that seem as effortless as my morning bed head. Their children are glorious, brilliant, and incapable of being even two degrees less than stellar. Even when they’re crouched on the sidewalk eating weeds and sticking their fingers in dog poo.
These parents have planned carefully for their children’s future and have already pre-registered their brethren at Yale. Of course, their youngest is six months old and enjoys eating her own snot, but these parents are bound and determined to have a litter of well-bred, side-talking, Ivy League-ers and nothing will stand in their way. Not even your shin when you’re in line at the market and they’re cruising their fist-sucking seed past you like you don’t even exist. Nothing. Will. Stand. In. Their. Way.
THE OVERINDULGENT PARENTS
"Now, Thomas? What does Mommy say about jumping on the sofa? Huh? What does she say? What does she say?"
Well, apparently, she doesn’t say, "GET OFF THE FUCKING SOFA NOW, YOU LITTLE PEE FACTORY, BEFORE I STAPLE YOU TO THE CEILING."
It’s utterly amazing to me that a grown person above the age of, say, twenty, can suddenly allow themselves to be ruled by a person roughly the size of a rabid wombat with the intellectual capacity of a crouton.
"Thomas! Leave the nice woman alone! I’m sure she doesn’t like it when you hit her with your Popsicle. No, I’m sure she doesn’t. Do you want to hit Mommy with your Popsicle? Come hit Mommy with your Popsicle! Come on!"
Here. Give ME his Popsicle. I’d be GLAD to hit you with it. And, when I’m done doing that, I’d be more than happy to take a few swings at you with this stop sign because, lady? IT’S A KID, NOT A TERRORIST. Here’s a tip: HE’S SMALLER THAN YOU. AND HE DOESN’T HAVE A GUN. SMACK HIM ON THE HEAD AND MOVE ON.
THE HORROR SHOW PARENTS
Otherwise known as the "My children suck and so does that ungrateful, lazy bastard who knocked me up in the first place" parents. Very often seen in line at the post office, the Jewel-Osco, Wal-Mart, the unemployment office (where I spent many a sundry Tuesday afternoon, hungover, bitter, angry and utterly alone), an air and water show, or any fine dining establishment involving trays, plastic cutlery, and high school students behind the cash registers.
Their children are, inevitably, filthy, loud and terrifying. I’m not talking about a little cotton candy stuck to their cheeks, either. I’m talking about cotton candy from TWO WEEKS AGO stuck to their cheeks. The parents are, inevitably, filthy, loud and terrifying. A mullet would not be unheard of in this situation. Neither would a lit cigarette. BEHIND THEIR EAR. Screaming at their children for doing nothing other than, well, breathing? Par for the course. Screaming at their lone family member (who, for some bizarre reason, has tagged along for the pure enjoyment of what I don’t know) about the children who are the biggest fucking wastes of space since that motherfucker Larry who STILL hasn’t picked up his bass guitar? Totally and completely expected.
THE EXPOSED NERVE PARENTS
Jimmy? Where’s Jimmy? What’s he doing? WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S IN THE KITCHEN? There’s that one door we haven’t baby-proofed! Yes, I KNOW IT’S ABOVE THE SINK AND IT’S MADE OF STEEL! He could still get hurt! Okay. I got him. I GOT HIM. Did you bring his vitamins? HIS VITAMINS! Oh, for God’s sake! He can’t go through the day without his A, B-complex, C, E, sharkfin, whale blubber – WHAT’S HE DOING NEAR THE APPLES?!!! HE COULD BE ALLERGIC TO THOSE! Put those away! FAR AWAY! Oh, and keep him away from the flour. And the salt. And anything silver. NO! NOT THE WOOL JACKET! NOOOOO!
Jimmy will grow up to be a serial killer with a penchant for wool. He will snort salt, brain his victims with a warped steel door and will dispose of the bodies in vats of applesauce.
THE OLD PRO PARENTS
Once, they were model parents. Caring, concerned, cautious. They promised to do everything by the book and swore they would raise the most excellent children that ever would roam the planet.
Mrs. Pro popped out their fifth and final kid about a year ago and promptly had her entire reproductive system removed JUST TO BE SURE. And Mr. Pro had a vasectomy and made the doctor sign a statement declaring that he would NEVER, under any circumstances, allow the procedure to be reversed.
Their second oldest kid is in the basement, conducting an experiment involving peanut butter, the family rabbit, a socket wrench, and the sump pump. Another kid is sitting in the sandbox, forcing the youngest kid to lick the wet sand in the corner. The oldest kid, a rather studious type, has retired to his bedroom to read the latest edition of the dog-eared magazine he found shoved behind his dad’s toolbox. The centerfold, in particular, interests him.
And Mr. and Mrs. Pro? Why, they’re on the veranda entertaining their newlywed next-door neighbors, Becky and Wyatt. Mr. Pro treats himself to a third margarita as Mrs. Pro lazily sips her fourth. Becky and Wyatt are still nursing their first. Becky and Wyatt brightly declare that they’ve decided to start having children right away. Mrs. Pro cackles aloud in a voice raw from screaming at ears that never seem to hear. She laughs so hard that margarita comes out her nose. Mr. Pro just smiles wryly as his dear little girl toddles in and smears Wyatt’s left leg with what she refers to as "doggy chocolate."
"Good luck," says Mr. Pro as his wife continues to laugh and laugh and laugh.
And I’m laughing right now thinking about just how much I’ll enjoy being childless for my remaining time on Earth.
Erin Dailey is a freelance writer and web designer with a fine selection of day jobs to her credit. She sporadically updates her website, The Redhead Papers, and promises to get the damn redesign done as soon as possible. When the television season is up and running, she writes brilliantly snarky recaps of the hit ABC show Alias for the fabulous website, Television Without Pity. And, yes, Sydney Bristow is based on her college spy-girl antics. When she's not churning out cheesy ad copy, she enjoys caressing her PS2 and her new copy of Primal and admits to downing the occasional fruity cocktail. She is 34 and doesn't care who knows it.
I'm not an evil bitch, really I'm not. I just have no patience for parents like this. And like Ms. Dailey, I don't care who knows it.
Posted by beenie at July 22, 2003 10:43 AM