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Broke Wife, Big City
Go play with
your sister. That’s why we had her.
By Aprill Brandon
Guys, we’re going to have to change the meaning of the word “natural.”
It’s either that or stop referring to anything related to motherhood
and parenting as “natural.”
Take breastfeeding. Feeding your child with your very own body. It’s
often claimed this is, and I quote, “the most natural thing in the
world.” It is not. It is semi-aggressively shoving a sore and tattered
body part over and over into your tiny baby’s piranha mouth until they
finally latch on correctly. Which they have no idea how to do and you
have no idea how to get them to do. Which is why you’re both crying and
screaming while your husband and your mother and the lactation
specialist all crowd around and take turns violently squishing said
sore and tattered body part into various shapes in a vain effort to
help.
Then, even when they get older, eating does not come naturally to
children. Nor does eating natural foods. Every day is another scene in
the ongoing play “Here’s Food, Little Humans!” And every day ends in
the same climatic final scene, with the kids yelling, “Oh no, we can’t
eat that! That has actual nutrients in it! We demand Cheetos with some
Play-Doh dip on the side!”
Sleep? Pffft. Forget it. Getting a kid to sleep “naturally” in their
bed requires months of training, semi-professional ninja skills and,
when all else fails, sacrificing a small goat to the deity of your
choosing.
Kids even turn bodily functions into an absurd struggle. There is
nothing natural about potty training. Even animals know not to crap
where they sleep. Humans have to be rewarded with stickers and candy
for months, sometimes years, before they finally relent and agree that
yeah, sleeping is easier when you don’t have a pantsful of poop.
And there is nothing, NOTHING, natural about the unholy and
indescribable agony you feel when stepping on a child’s Lego, which I
imagine is its own level down in Hell. Just a big ‘ol round room where
the floor is covered in Legos and Satan tells you “you can leave as
soon as you find a corner.”
But perhaps the one that surprised me the most is that siblings don’t
know how to naturally play with each other. At least my kids don’t. A
fact I have oh-so-delightfully been discovering as they get older.
Every day I practically have to introduce the two.
“Oh, Riker, you remember your sister, the tiny creature who ruined your
awesome only child existence? Why don’t you see if she wants to play
Stormtroopers?”
“Mae, this is your brother. He also thinks it’s fun to spin around
until you want to puke, unlike me, your mother. How about you ask him
to spin around for 27 minutes straight?”
And every day, they both tell me the exact same thing.
“No! I want to play with YOU, Momma!”
If I am anywhere in the vicinity, forget it. They basically treat me
like a portable playground, just clinging and swinging from any body
part they can grab onto while I desperately run past on my way to the
bathroom or the kitchen or the basement to do exciting things like
shower or cook or find a dark corner to inject sugar and carbohydrates
directly into my veins.
I just don’t get it. They’re only two years apart. And yet, the oldest
seems to view his sister as merely a pet, but like a pet with mange and
rabies and thus a pet that should be avoided at all costs.
And I always thought the younger sibling was supposed to worship the
older one, following them around like some moon-eyed pet. Not my
daughter. Nope. She always seems to be plotting how to overthrow her
brother, as though he were an heir to some fabulous kingdom. Even
though I keep reminding her that our kingdom is small and on the verge
of financial collapse and we are currently renting it.
I once got them to chase each other around for 45 seconds. Best bribe
money I ever spent.
It may be time to admit that my two beautiful, smart, funny, kind,
wonderful children are duds in the sibling department.
But hey, you can’t win ‘em all. And it’s not like we had two kids so
they would have someone to play with or anything. We had two kids so
they can pool their money when they get older and send me and their
father to a top-notch swanky retirement home.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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