The 5 Types of Very Bad Parenting Essays
Newsflash: Creating a miniature human in your likeness doesn't make you God.
|Heather Havrilesky||Sep 30, 2019|| 10|
Look, I’m just as into crafting tiny artisanal human friends using only my body as the next slob. I just want to caution you against writing self-congratulatory prose on the subject, lest you accidentally end up publishing one of these Five Very Bad Parenting Essays I Never Want to Read Again.
1. My Child Is Incredible
You haven’t met my new baby, so I’ll forgive you not for knowing that he’s literally the manifestation of God on Earth, or that he’s recently arrived here to judge the living and the dead in order to choose who ascends into heaven. Maybe if you stared into his eyes for hours with awe and wonder, high on the natural narcotics your body makes when you’re breastfeeding, you’d know that. And maybe if you were jacked up on said narcotics, you could also stand to read the 12,000-word essay I just wrote about how every tiny burp and babble he makes is a way of offering humankind further evidence that he is the divine made manifest, bringing salvation and peace to all who gaze upon his glowing visage (which is also typically covered in crusty snot). Either way, you’d better pray that he forgives you for all of your sins and admits you into heaven everlasting, because he tells me you’ve done some pretty messed up shit so far.
2. Wow, Being a Dad Is Rad!
You know what’s awesome that I never knew was awesome before? Being a dad! Because babies are like, actually cool. I always thought that you had to be a complete wuss to think that. Then my wife made a baby out of thin air, using only her freakish disgusting bloated body! Dude, I am so glad she’s hot again, and I also couldn’t be more grateful to take my incredible, perfect kid to the park on a Sunday every now and then. All of the moms Ooo and Aahh over what a great dad I am, but I always tell them, “Whatever, I’m just being a parent, doing what you guys do, except for I’m way more chill about everything.” Oh man, my kid is eating dog poop off the ground again, gotta run.
3. Women Are Supernatural And I Am the Best Woman.
A lot of people struggle with parenthood, but not me. Not only was it super easy for me to get pregnant (I had three glasses of Pinot Grigio one night and wham, baby! lol!) but I’ve just loved being a Mommy, every single second of it. Whenever I shove my soft nipples in between my first born’s snapping jaws, I’m filled with a sense that all is well in the world and I’m exactly where I should be. Maybe that’s just because my son is the literal manifestation of God on Earth, but I don’t think so. I think there’s something special about me as a mother. I’m incredible. You’ve probably noticed that already, but you still might not know that all mothers are supernatural beings who are stronger and more nurturing and also morally superior to all other human beings on the planet. Ever since I gave birth (which is difficult for some people, but my son’s birth was like a 20-hour-long orgasm), I can melt ice with my eyes. (Sometimes it takes a few minutes.) The point is, if moms were in charge of the whole world, there wouldn’t be any wars or trade deficits and we’d all have a house directly on the beach in Malibu. Too bad you guys are too stupid and un-supernatural to know that and put us in charge of everything.
4. Man, I Need a Beer!
You know what’s awesome that I never knew was awesome before? Going out and drinking a beer whenever you want to. I miss it so much, you guys. Obviously I’m the best dad around because I take my dumb kid to the park every now and then. But you know what I like much more than taking my idiot kid to the park? Pouring cold, refreshing beer into my face until I’m fall-down drunk. It’s my passion, and I didn’t even realize it until now! And now I can’t pursue my passion anymore! Somebody help me!
5. Things Got Real Yesterday, You Guys.
As you know, I’ve been super busy lately because I’ve been nurturing the Lord Almighty to maturity with supreme patience and benevolence. Naturally, we’ve never sleep-trained the Son of God because we don’t want to put a bushel over his Everlasting Light, so he wakes up roughly every hour or so each night in order to pull my hair or kick my husband in the balls. It’s all fine, though. We speak to him in gentle tones and we let him “sleep” right in the middle of our bed, where he thrashes around and punches me in the face every time I drift into a light slumber. This is called “co-sleeping” and it’s the only way to ensure that your child doesn’t develop attachment issues and multiple personality and mood disorders as a teenager.
Yesterday, though, we were having dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant, and our collective lack of sleep came into play. Even though we typically dine out by taking turns chasing the King of Kings around the restaurant and shoving little bits of chicken finger into his mouth whenever he opens it to shriek, we were a tiny bit tired last night, so we briefly strapped Our Lord and Savior into a high chair. The Good Shepherd didn’t love this change in protocol, so he knocked my margarita onto the floor and glass shattered all over the place. When I reacted with alarm (OK, I’ll admit, I raised my voice above a whisper, which was a mistake that I will regret for the rest of my days), the Lamb of God stabbed me in the leg with a fork and then climbed down from his high chair and stabbed several other restaurant patrons in the leg as well. For a while I chased after him, giggling and whispering, “Kids are crazy, amirite?!!” until an inappropriately aggressive waitress wrestled the Prince of Peace to the ground. But it all turned out fine once she apologized profusely and we agreed not to sue her and we strapped Our Messiah and Redeemer into his car seat and then my husband walked around and explained attachment parenting to everyone in the restaurant as they were dressing their various wounds.
But guys, can I tell you? Things got real for a minute there! Parenting is so wild, you don’t even know. You also totally don’t get how it changes you for the better, forever and ever, until the Lord God (that’s my son!) returns to judge the living and the dead. And oh yeah, he’s already here, you guys better get your shit together real quick-like, or else!
Ready to be judged? Write to askmolly at protonmail and brace thyself for words of wisdom and light!