The 7 Stupidest Questions I’ve Heard About Being A Parent

 
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I have three kids, a 6-month old, a 5-year-old, and a
7-year-old. I love my kids, but let’s face it; sometimes having kids makes you
moody.  Non-parents regularly ask me
questions about raising kids. They are always well intentioned, and outwardly,
I always answer them graciously, but after hearing the same questions year
after year, I’m starting to get a little irritated. So I’m using this post to
set a few things straight.
“How do you manage
three kids?”
What were you expecting from this question? That I would break
down into tears and admit that we can’t handle having three kids sometimes? The
leap from two to three felt like I was treading water and someone threw me a
baby. Sometimes I just want to park my min-van full of screaming kids on the
side of the highway and run into the woods. How do I manage them? Not very
well. Is that the answer you were looking for? Are you satisfied?
“Do your kids ever
fight?”
Seriously? Did you fight with your siblings? They fight over
everything. Last week I had to break up a wrestling match over whether my
daughter could smell my son’s fart. The week before that they fought over
string cheese. Yes, my kids fight. All kids fight. When they are not fighting,
I assume they are plotting something… probably robbery.
“Did you see last
night’s episode of Parks and Recreation?”
(This doesn’t seem to be a
question about the kids, but it is).  I
don’t control the TV anymore. The kids do. Last night I watched Yo-Gabba-Gabba. Then I watched Pokémon. Then I thought about cutting my
eyes out of my skull. Check it out. If the protagonist isn’t animated, or
stuffed, or have a hand up its puppet-ass, then just assume I haven’t seen it.
“Why are your eyes so
blood shot? Did your kids keep you up?”
Yes! Yes they did. I was up for two
hours last night changing wet sheets, and searching for Bun Bun. Ugh… I want to
light Bun Bun on fire! You know what, if someone with children looks tired,
just assume the kids are responsible and shut your stupid mouth.
“Do your kids ever
talk back?”
Oh… no way. My kids are little angels. Most of the time they
speak in pleases and thank you’s, and when I put my feet up after a long day’s
work, they bring me my slippers and make me a sandwich.
Of course my kids talk back. Yesterday my five-year-old
princess called me a fart-face because I wouldn’t let her watch Netflix. Then
my 7-year-old told my wife that she sucked because she wouldn’t give him an ice
cream sandwich. I didn’t teach them to talk like that. Naturally, I sent them
to their rooms, but here we are.
“What’s that white
stuff on your shirt?”
Puke. It’s always puke. Tomorrow, there will be puke
on my clothes again. If the stain is something other than white, it’s probably
piss or shit. I have a baby. Deal with it.
“I bet there is a lot
of love in your home… right?”
Mostly my home is full of poo, and boogers,
and wet spots that I don’t understand. I can’t explain all of the smells, and
my table is usually sticky. But yes, when I come home, my 7-year-old son jumps
into my arms, and it’s wonderful. And my 5-year-old, she shows me a new dance
or something, and it always melts me heart. And the baby, she just kicks her
legs and squeals. It’s adorable.
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Clint Edwards was blessed with a
charming and spitfire wife, a video game obsessed little boy, and a snarky
little girl in a Cinderella play dress. When Clint was 9-years-old his father
left. With no example of fatherhood, he had to learn how to be a father and
husband through trial and error. His work has been featured in Good
Morning America
, The New York Times,
The
Washington Post
, The
Huffington Post
, Scary
Mommy
, The Good
Men Project
, Fast
Company
, and elsewhere. He lives in Oregon. Follow him on Facebook and
Twitter
Photo by Lucinda Higley
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