Monday, May 26, 2008

When I was a surrogate mother



While I’ve been living at home this past month I’ve been trying to help my frazzled, overworked mother out with household stuff and after only one month I gotta say that motherhood is the crappiest job ever.

And I’m not even technically the mother, but I have been doing tasks that have traditionally fallen to mothers and that mothers, even women who work full-time, still get stuck with even today. I’m talking about cooking and cleaning.

The first thing I learned is that nothing makes you hate your offspring, or surrogate offspring a.k.a. little brothers and sisters in my case, like cooking for them. I sit there and chop and mix and bake and all I get is attitude from the little jerks.

They come up to me like “We’re starving! We must eat this instant!” So I politely say, “Dinner will be ready a few minutes.” Then they look at whatever I’m making and say “Ew, what is that? Is it good? Will I like it? If I don’t like it, which is very likely, will you make me something else?”

So I chase them out of the kitchen brandishing some sort of cooking utensil, finish dinner and then try and call them back into the kitchen to eat.

“Um, hold on a minute, let me finish what I’m doing,” they invariably say.

What?! I thought you punks were starving!

After I drag them all back into the kitchen they descend upon the food like a swarm of locusts and devour everything in sight. This process takes about ten minutes. The labor ratio ends up being over two hours of cooking to yield less than ten minutes of destruction. Extremely depressing.

Then as quickly as they came they vanish, leaving the kitchen in shambles. I have to drag them back into the kitchen again, chasing them down individually, begging, pleading and threatening to get them to come back and help clean up the devastation.


And not only can they destroy a kitchen in less than ten minutes, they can destroy pretty much any room in the same amount of time. I think I could vacuum, scrub and organize until judgment day and still some little kid would come in while my back was turned and dump part of the elementary school sandbox out of his shoes onto the floor, throw toys everywhere, eviscerate a bookshelves and cabinets, color on the walls with crayon or puke on the carpet.

So when some lady seatbelts her kids into a car and proceeds to drive said car into a river, I think I will judge her less harshly now. That is bad to say, but it’s true.

I’m sure that stuff like this led to the feminist movement. Women probably started to think, “Why are we stuck with this crap?” Next thing you know there’s burning bras and all kinds of stuff. Shoot, if I wore a bra, I would burn it after this month. Actually, I might need to start wearing a bra soon because I don’t have any time to exercise now that I am cooking and cleaning, and I feel some man boobs coming on.

5 comments:

  1. Um, wow. So I'm not so sure about this whole motherhood deal. Way to scare women away from being a mom.

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  2. you can't scare me. I'm sorry for being a shmo... not writing you back.

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  3. I didn't mean to scare anyone. Parenting just seems like hard work. And I guess not everyone starts with as many kids as my parents have, you usually start with one.

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  4. Indulge me, how many kids DO your folks have?

    Can't be more than 18.

    That's how many my great-grandfolks had.

    Yeah.

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  5. My parents have 8 kids total.

    And 18 is a lot of kids. Props to them.

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