wait what?

Kids ruin everything, including my ability to be my own damn self, know my own damn self, and be honest about both. The moment I said the first polarizing thing on instagram about my children and got such fiery responses - from people who agreed AND from people who were aghast that I would speak about my children in SUCH A MANNER - was the moment I knew I needed to keeping talking about it. 

So that’s what I do here. I’m gonna talk about how kids sorta suck? How like, they ruin our bodies, our minds, our sleep. Our relationships. Our budgets. Our pantries full of god-know-what but it better be organic, and then thrill to the fact that they won’t eat shit you serve them until forever, I’m told. No regrets!

My angel babies are 4 years and about to be 1 year, so I guess I don’t know anything else and that’s the other point of this: none of us know what the actual hell we’re doing! Cool! Let’s talk about how hard it is! 

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what you’ll get

Laughs. At me, probably, and potentially at yourself. Because as you know, if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry, and the poor skin under your eyes could use a break, couldn’t it? 

A weekly essay on something or other, and if you subscribe, you’ll get voice notes (don’t call it a podcast, but I guess you could call it a podcast) and anything else that I write each week. I’m also considering a vlog format and that will come only to paid subscribers because my confidence can handle nothing less. 

but like still why

I really want to build a community of people who agree in general that it’s hard having kids, making kids, making kids do the right shit, figuring out what IS the right shit, and also being a PERSON while doing all these things for these humans we made from scratch. And alternate title of this could be “I used to be cool,” so we’ll be exploring that theme and disertating - a word I just made up - on like, what the fuck.

So yeah, join, comment, share, and stuff. Maybe make friends? Idk I’m new here too.

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Kids ruin everything, and other truths about being a grown-up.