Sam woke up this morning and said he had a headache. This was the second day he'd said that, so I was little bit worried. We've all been suffering from colds so I wondered if maybe it was a sinus issue.
"Are you stuffed up? Are you congested?"
"Well, my stomach does hurt a little when I poop."
I kept a straight face, of course. Because there comes a time when you are no longer allowed to openly laugh at your children. Sam would be SO mad if he knew I was writing this. And probably a little confused because he still wouldn't know why it was funny. But they do reach a point where they know they don't like being laughed AT.
This is another thing nobody ever tells you about having kids.
Eventually, this shit actually gets HARD.
Sleepless nights? A cake walk compared to wondering if your kid will ever learn to read. Poopy diapers? A mound of lemon-scented clouds next to the anxiety of friendless-ness. Introducing solids? A double rainbow with a cherry on top compared to all the goddamnned mother-fucking homework.
All that baby stuff? It's just about endurance. Living through it. Keeping everybody alive. It's relentless and it's hard work, but it's just work. I can DO work.
But then they get older. And it's all this stuff that you, as a parent, can't control. But it's still going to be your fault. You can't fix it, but you have to figure it out.
All of a sudden, I'm looking at the gaping maw of years of things I can't DO.
And, given technology and kids these days, Sam could actually be blogging about me in the near future.
I'm probably not going to find that very amusing.