I f*cking love my kid.

Seriously. The F-bomb is necessary, because the pedestrian sentence doesn't cut it without it. I fucking love my kid. He's the best, he's the bomb, he's the bees' fucking knees. If everything else I ever attempt in this world fails dismally, and I raise a happy, healthy, independent kid, I'll count my life a success.

Look, I'm a sarcastic bitch, but not about my kid. I'm not easily domesticated; I'm a shitty housekeeper, I go to cooking like I'm being sent in front of a firing squad, and my skill at being a quiet, demure wife, is well, *snort* nonexistent. But as a mom, I unequivocably rock. My kid is the spitting image of me as a kid: highly energetic, independent, smart, problem-solving, boundary pushing, empathic, and easily affectionate. He's not the easiest kid to wrangle in the world, but let's face it: I don't want that kid.

Easy-going kids are not my thing. Easy-going morphs too quickly into bland, boring, and milquetoast; or covers up a conniving personality that uses subterfuge and manipulation to get what they want, since they don't have the balls to ask for it. I can't stand people like that, and I'm glad my kid is as far away from being a mousy pushover as he is.

Which is not to say he's a bully: he's a very affectionate, loving, empathetic kid who happens to have a lot of energy he doesn't (at nearly 3) know what to do with. Let me illustrate: one day I picked him up from his day care place(he goes two days a week so I can get something done besides wiping jelly off of everything three feet high), and the teacher came rushing over to me. She told me, in excited tones usually reserved for a Nobel Peace Prize nomination, that a little girl in the class had been having a meltdown that day when her mom had left. Apparentally, she wasn't comforted by anything, and the teacher had to hold her, sobbing and wailing, for a good fifteen minutes with no signs of stopping. Anyone who's ever held a screaming child knows that fifteen minutes is a lifetime.

This little girl plays with one, and only one, toy in the classroom. Ever. Apparentally, apropos of nothing, little Eddie walked over to the toy shelves, found the favoured toy, and brought it over to the unhappy girl. The teacher told me she was floored. She said it like he performed open-heart surgery or wrestled a bear.

That's one of my favourite stories, because it shows off a side of my son that isn't always in the forefront. At two and a half, he not only tried to comfort another child who was upset (a feat in itself; toddlers aren't known for their sympathetic natures), he did it by offering her her favourite toy. So not only did he want to help, he also paid enough attention to the kids around him to know what this little girl would like. For a toddler full smack in the me-me-me stages, this is something pretty fucking amazing.

So whenever he's leaping headfirst into the couch from the coffee table, or writing on the TV screen with non-washable crayons (I know, I know, but the washable ones don't come in any good colours), I have this story to remind me that underneath all the ballyhoo, my son's a genuinely good kid. And that's a platform you can build a good adult from, so we're already halfway there.



Forgive me for gushing about my kid, I know to non-breeders or pre-breeders the constant kid stories parents make can get a little grating, but all the stories you've heard about having kids are true. They will take over your life. Of course, if you're even close to being a decent human being, you won't miss your old life too much; you'll no longer give a shit about all the things you worried about when you were childless. You'll have all new things to worry about, like how you're going to pay for college, or how you're going to get the peanut butter sandwich out of the VCR.

Of course it's hard, it's harder than anything I've ever done in my life. It's more stressful than my job, my marriage, and my relationship with my family combined. I've gotten more grey hair in the last 3 years than I got in the first 35. But it's worth it, it's worth more to me than everything else in my life combined. I love my friends, I love my family, and I love my husband. But if worst comes to worst, I can survive without them. The only person on this earth I can't say that about is my son. But that's how it is with kids. They bring out the best you have to give as a person. Let me illustrate further:

I am terrified--at 38--of zombies. Pissing myself terrified. Hyperventilating-in-the-theatre-during-Sean-of-the-Dead-terrified. I say this to you with the full force of my (admittedly irrational) fear:

I would walk through a cityful of zombies to get to my son.

Even clown zombies.

That's how awesome my kid is. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go wipe yogurt off my laptop. :)