I don't think that means what you think it means

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.