Dear Children: Your Mom Is A Real Human Being

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Dear Children,

It’s me – your mom. You may remember me from such classics as “Getting You (Yet Another) Glass of Milk” and “Tucking You in at Bedtime.” We’ve known each other a few years, and yet I feel the need to introduce myself.

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So, please allow me to do so: I am your mother, a real human-being.

Dear kids, your mom is a real human being. Not a robot. This hilarious look at motherhood and the demands of little ones is so funny. #parenting #momlife #funny #motherhood #motherhooduncensored

Despite what you have may have gleaned from our visits to the Chinese Buffet or on family pizza night, I am not a human garbage disposal.

I am also not a pack mule despite the overfilled yet stylish backpack I don on all our trips outside the house. I don’t know any mules who know how to shop on Amazon and we all know how good I am at that.

Here are a few other things I am not:

  • An inanimate object. I am not a rock nor a stick nor a pile of logs.
  • A butler. My name is not Jeeves and we are not in Silicon Valley.
  • A statue. You won’t find me permanently affixed in stone in a town square.

No, instead, I am just a regular person who breathes air and spends way too much money at Target and Starbucks.

Here are a few other things that might surprise you: my favorite gifts aren’t mushy banana peels and messy yogurt lids. I don’t actually need every piece of garbage you come in contact with.

If you finish a juice box, there’s no law that says you can’t throw it into the trash yourself. Believe me, I’ve checked. It’s legal in every state.

I also don’t need you to throw your trash at me while I am driving because unlike properly discarding your own refuse, distracted driving really is against the law.

Also, when I finally SIT DOWN TO A MEAL after spending hours chasing after everyone and making sure you and your siblings are fed, I don’t need to be inundated with yet another request.

I know, I know. I gave you the Capri Sun with the red fruit on it when you wanted the one with the yellow one. I’m sorry. I’ll be sure to dock myself a few hours’ pay to make up for it.

All I’m asking is that when you see me finally enjoying a quiet moment—literally one moment—just let me enjoy it.

Like most people, I need a FEW SECONDS OF DOWNTIME here and there to prevent my head from exploding.

When your twin baby siblings are crying in unison and I’ve just finished making sure that you are completely set and comfortable, that’s not exactly the best time to ask me to change the video on YouTube or to get you a cookie.

Believe me, if I could do everything for everyone at exactly the same time, I would. But, then I would be a robot, and as we’ve discussed above, I am not a robot.

I am a real person.

Furthermore, in case there was a misprint in the family handbook, I do not actually need you to wake me up before dawn with a grumpy throat clear and requests for the iPad. My idea of a good time is not watching the same episode of The Incredible Hulk on a loop one-hundred times in a row while you treat our furniture like a trampoline park.

When your dad and I take the family on a super fun family outing, we don’t need critiques on how the other museum would have been better.

I see that look on your face and I know what you’re thinking.

I’m the mama. It’s my job to do the dirty work.

Yes, this is true. I reviewed the contract before I signed onto this motherhood gig. I read the fine print and everything. I’m a lawyer. It’s what I do.

Sure, there were some paragraphs I had questions about, but I knew I’d be working days, nights, and weekends. Unlike the job I went to school for, I knew motherhood wouldn’t come with certain luxurious perks. I was okay with that. I still am. In fact, I am more than okay with it.

I love being your mama.

Also, I know you’re at an age where you need me a lot and I’m on board with that, too. I love that I get to be around you all the time and that you want to show me every little bit of your life. I know that won’t last forever.

Still, it’s important that we have this chat. There aren’t many good stories about entitled thirty-year-old kids who treat their parents like servants, and I’m not going to let you become a cautionary tale.

Instead, your dad and I will continue to work together to raise you into being the confident, capable, independent, appreciative person you were meant to be. You’ll thank us one day.

But, until then, I’m going to need you to throw away your own yogurt cups.

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