I think mothers need a no-bullshit friendship manifesto.

That way, we can go into new relationships knowing we’re in agreement on a few critical factors, thereby avoiding the awkward situation in which you realize one person is into drama and the other isn’t. I’m never into the drama. I think I’m too old. Or tired. Or there’s just so many more interesting things to think about.

Like Michael Scott from The Office, for example. What’s more interesting than him?

You know what’s amazing? Friends who aren’t into drama.

I actually don’t have any of the other variety. I think I either scare them away or I run away. One can never be sure.

However, I often hear about mothers getting on other mothers’ cases for perfectly reasonable mother-behavior like being a fucking flake. And I’m baffled.

It ain’t right!

This aggression will not stand, man.

As if we don’t have enough to deal with. As if kids and domestic life partners and jobs and uteri aren’t enough of a damn problem, some people think “You didn’t call me back in a timely manner so now I’m mad at you” is a logical addition to the list. We can’t do that to each other. We just can’t.

So behold, the No-Bullshit, No-Drama Friendship Manifesto:

1. I will not get on your case for not texting me back in a timely manner.
2. I will not get on your case for not calling me back in a timely manner.
3. This is because I will soon be the one not calling and texting you back in a timely manner.
4. If you tell me you’re going to call me back “in a few minutes” I understand I may not hear from you for 3 days.
5. I know this is not because you don’t love me.
6. If I need you for real, I will harangue and harass you until you acknowledge me. This process includes, but is not limited to: calling, texting and emailing (repeatedly), instant messaging, tweeting, tagging on Instagram, showing up on doorsteps, actually leaving voicemails (!) and/or contacting spouses.
7. This will not annoy you because you know you’re a fucking flake.
8. This will not annoy me because I know I’m a fucking flake.
9. If you don’t RSVP to my kid’s birthday party for 3 weeks then call the morning of the event and say “Uh, yeah, um, sorry, but can we come?” I’m not going to express profound irritation through a suppressed sigh and deep pause, rather I’m gonna be like “Yeah that’s cool, but do you have any candles? I forgot the effing candles.”
10. And I’m going to be happy you came, because we’re friends.
11. When my kids are acting like shitheads and you’re like “Hey child, No.” I won’t get all righteously indignant. Instead I’ll look at you in gratefulness for dealing with the little bastards so I don’t have to.
12. When you get pissed at your husband, I will agree he is the most sorry d-bag to ever walk the planet and we shall plan for the day when we live on an all-female commune with organic produce, llamas and wool spinning-wheels. And redwood trees. And the ocean.
13. Even if you’re clearly the asshole.
14. When you swear in front of my kids I won’t care. Because obviously.
15. The dinners you make uniformly blow my mind.
16. Whoever has the youngest (or worst behaving child) at the moment gets to make decisions. We all understand that children are often foul, insane little creatures and it needn’t even be mentioned that we DON’T BLAME YOU.
17. Maybe your house is clean. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe who gives a rat’s ass?
18. When I say something stupid that could be conveyed as insulting or whatever, you’re not going to get all overly sensitive and weird, calling mutual friends and psycho-analyzing what, exactly, my problem is (probably going back to childhood), rather you’re going to call me out on it and then I’m going to apologize and we’re going to move on, LIKE ADULTS, because occasionally adults say stupid shit, the end.
19. When you say something stupid, I’ll either do number 18 or, and I know this is revolutionary, I’LL LET IT GO.
20. We tell each other the truth (except the asshole part when fighting with domestic life partners).
21. When my jeans are sagging, you’re going to lovingly take me shopping. Or you’re going to not notice. These are the only two options.
22. The only time I’m going to one-up you is to prove I’ve screwed up worse than the time you’re currently feeling terribly about.
23. I will not give helpful parenting advice. You will not give helpful parenting advice. WE ALL HATE THE MOM WITH HELPFUL PARENTING ADVICE.
24. I understand that “on time” means “not as late as I usually am.”
25. When our conversation gets interrupted nineteen hundred and forty seven times by one kid or another and that thing I was going to say that was so funny and interesting is forgotten entirely, I won’t get hurt feelings.
26. When I borrow a baby item, don’t return it, then, 2 years later, when you ask for it back and I’m like “Yeah I don’t think we have that anymore,” you’re like “oh okay” but then, 4 months later, when I find it in a bin in my garage, you’re like “It’s cool.”
27. Because we’re both fucking flakes, except when it matters.

And we’ll know when it matters, because WE ARE FRIENDS.

And when it matters, we show up no matter what with whole heart, or fist, ready to build or struggle or soothe. Ready to hold or make or remake, maybe for the hundredth time.

We show up with tears and sweat and annoying kids and food, laughter and some yelling, a cracked voice and a steady ear.

Because we are friends.

We let go of the bullshit and just love. And if there isn’t love, we let go of the charade and find some real friends.

Because really, what the hell else is there? Just a bunch of humans bumbling along.

This week, my ass was saved by one of these friends. There’s something spectacular about this, all of it, the no-bullshit friendship.

The soft place and rock. When it matters.

Shrek BFFs

Do you ever get tired of reading the same damn thing every “holiday?”

Yeah, neither do I.

I enjoy it. In fact, I enjoy it so much I’ve taken time out of my “busy mommy life(!)” (I just gagged) to read every single blog post and article ever written near, on or about Mother’s Day. And I’ve summarized them in two sentences or less.

I didn’t actually do that.

I’m sure I missed one or two.

I’ve also added highly-opinionated, useless commentary.

Consider this my gift to you.

What can I say? I’m a giver. I give. I gave on my first try.

So here it is…All Mother’s Day blog posts ever written summarized in 2 sentences or less, complete with useless commentary and occasional f-bombs.

The “What moms really want on Mother’s Day” post

Summary: We don’t want brunch and mimosas and flowers and spa days. We want you to clean the house and toilets and cook while we sleep.

Only we don’t actually just want this on Mother’s Day, we want it every fucking day, but we feel like you owe it to us on Mother’s Day so we feel compelled to ask. Also, who the hell came up with the “we don’t want brunch and spas” nonsense? I want brunch. I love brunch. I also love spas. I used to love mimosas. I used to really, really love mimosas. Also whiskey.

Do people get whiskey on Mother’s Day? Why do we have to drink these girly drinks? Why can’t we drink some freaking Maker’s Mark?

Um. Let’s move on.

The overly sentimental reflection on motherhood post; AKA the “they grow up so fast” post

Summary: They grow up so fast.

Except when they’re three. Three takes forever. Three-year-olds are assholes. You keep telling me they grow up fast but my 3-year-old IS STILL THREE so what’s up with that, Einstein?

The “What if Mother’s Day cards told the truth?” post

Summary: Tongue-in-cheek “honest” depictions of motherhood so we all feel better about the fact that we suck.

Wait. I wrote one of those for Parenting magazine last year. If you can make it past the pop-up Betty Crocker ads, you can read them. Enjoy the clip art. That shit’s classic.

The “I feel guilty for being a crap mother so stop celebrating me” post

Summary: See title.

Oh damn I wrote one of those too. I’m such a cliché. I’m a cliché! Although that was one of the favorite things I’ve ever written and it’s Brain, Child (freaking excellent magazine) so that post doesn’t count, damn it.

I’m not a cliché!

I’m a unique and intricate snowflake!

Damn it.

cute family photo in obligatory Mother’s Day post

The “My mom sucked so I hate Mother’s Day” post

Summary: I had a shit mom and therefore the rest of the world should not celebrate moms ever because it hurts my feelings.

Right. Because that makes sense. (Didn’t write one of those. My mom is the best mom in the world.)

Ah ha! The “my mom is the best mom in the world post.”

No she’s not. My mom is. Fuck off.

The “I don’t have kids and I’m sick of the glorification of motherhood” post

Summary: I’m “childfree” so I think we shouldn’t celebrate people who aren’t.

Because that also makes sense.

The Call-to-Arms/Kumbaya/“let’s all stop judging each other” post

Summary: I make my choices and you make your choices and because it makes me sound like a good, enlightened human I’m going to pretend like I don’t judge you for not making the same choices I’ve made.

Um, obviously I think my choices are better. THAT’S WHY I MADE THEM. And if I see some woman feeding a baby a bottle with juice in it, I’m gonna judge the hell out of her. Of course I am. That’s a stupid fucking thing to do. However, if that woman came up to me at the park, I would be good and decent and respectful because everybody’s on their own damn path and it’s none of my business what other humans do with their kids.

The problem is not that people judge. The problem is that people are dicks.

The humble-brag Mother’s Day gift post

Summary: My husband is significantly better than yours and we have lots of money. That’s really all I wanted to say.

Yes, I know this already because we’re friends on Facebook. (Unfollow! Restricted acquaintance! (Only helpful thing Facebook has done in 5 years.))

The “you’re a good mom/I’m a good mom/we’re all good moms” post

Summary: Stay-at-home? Good for you. Work? Great. Sit on your ass all day and play video games while smoking cigarettes and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon? Go team! We support you!

No we don’t. We don’t really support you. We just pretend we do because it’s Mother’s Day.

(Also, has it ever occurred to any of these people writing the “You’re a stay-at-home mom and you’re doing a good job” or “You work out of the home and we salute you” posts that their target audience isn’t seeking the approval of a bunch of internet strangers? I mean, do you ever see posts congratulating fathers for staying home or working out of the home, validating their decisions and telling them “Everything will be okay, little one, we support you. YOU ARE OKAY.”

No. Because if a man stays home he’s a loving and devoted, miraculous father!

And if he works out of the home he’s a loving and devoted, miraculous father!

Also, the decisions of mothers are always held up for public scrutiny and analysis — Oh you bastard patriarchy. Nobody asked you. Stop telling me how to do human.)

Wow. That escalated quickly.

No but seriously it seems like the world sees mothers as bunch of needy, lost humans, all yelling in unison: “Somebody tell me I’m okay! Am I okay!?”

Somebody hold my hand and tell me I’m okay!

You’re not okay.

Alright fine. You’re okay.

(why can’t I ever just stay on topic? is it a disease?)

Which brings us to the “Oh mothers you’re so amazing and you’re totally okay and rocking it daily, cradling the future of humanity in your tender arms, pulling the lost souls of humanity into your warm bosom, building America through virtue and devotion and strength and stuff, WE THANK YOU.”

Oh yeah. I totally do that. I’m a builder.

Now leave me alone so I can eat some eggs benedict and get a fucking massage.

Shit only happens once a year, ya know.

Have fun, ladies. Make it a good one.

You know I support you.

happy Mother’s Day photo! alright. this is pretty fucking sweet.

I’m 36 weeks pregnant. Today.

I have a few thoughts.

But first, did I mention they threw me a “baby sprinkle?” Yes, yes. Proof. (MacDonald is my married name):

You see, this is what you get when you talk mad shit about baby sprinkles on your blog then get pregnant. It was supposed to be a “gender reveal” combined with a sprinkle but fortunately I’m “team green” so that was impossible.

If I live the rest of my life never uttering a sentence like that again, I will have succeeded.

Good lord.

I brought this on myself. I freak out online, talk endless shit, act like a smartass and have ridiculously, um, clear opinions. Even I would relish the opportunity to make fun of me.

Honestly, though, people know I’m just having fun. Despite what my hate mail indicates, I’m not a heartless bag against all cute shit, humanity and goodness. I like cute stuff too. Like puppies. And babies. Babies are cute. Usually.

Although, I must admit it was rather painful to repeatedly eek out the words “Are you coming to my sprinkle?” I even created a clever work-around by referring to it as a “non-shower shower” with the parenthetical: “no gifts.” Way more up my alley. But alas, I found myself saying “baby sprinkle” on a somewhat regular basis.

And people, there were sprinkles involved. There were lots of sprinkles involved. There were sprinkles on the invites and jars of sprinkles and sprinkles on the cupcakes and cookies dipped in, yes, sprinkles.

Here are the women involved with my demise: my sister-in-law Sara and my soul-sister, Cara Lyn. Here’s Sara, with a cookie, looking very smug and gorgeous, enjoying the excess of sprinkles:

And Cara Lyn, the lovely.

But she wouldn’t stop touching my belly, which pissed me off, so I flipped off the camera. Unknowingly, she did the same thing. SOUL SISTERS.

And of course, my mama, but I didn’t have any pictures of us together. Damn.

But she’s always there. For my whole life, those words are true.

It was one of the nicest parties anybody has ever thrown for me.  Seriously I was blown away. It was all Pinterest-cute and matching and stuff. There was even BURLAP. And MASON JARS and big, bright daisies. There was so much thought and love and time and generosity – lots of people showed up, old friends and new ones and family. I was not sprinkled. I was showered.

(Would somebody please shoot me if I continue using these words?)

Not with gifts – with things that actually matter. For example, my husband in a cupcake apron.

It was a freaking wonderful day. My own personal ironic baby sprinkle.

And now, let’s talk about 36 weeks…

I’m at the point where turning over in bed is like a 5-minute ordeal.

To get out of bed, I have to sort of throw my legs over the edge with great force to create the momentum to lift my upper body. I know this because I do it 458 times a night.

There is nothing quite like the feeling of a head literally turning on your bladder.

The other day I read a post on Babycenter (Yes, I’m still a sadist lurking on “my birth board” for entertainment and a vague sense of impending doom) that said “34 weeks and I only gained 5 pounds!” It took all my power to write back: “I have an idea. How about you die?”

I didn’t mean that.

I totally fucking meant that.

I’ve gained 50 pounds. It’s at least 20 pounds baby and fluid. AT LEAST. I’m sure the other 30 will come off via breastfeeding.

Ha.ha.ha.

I am insane. I cry a lot. I yell a lot. I dreamed the other night about dragons, red-wine tasting and being chased by short, angry men.

I don’t sleep. Sleep is for fucking losers. I like to lie awake at 2am and think about things that I can’t change. Either that, or I hang out in this weird half-sleep place where I’m sort of still in my dream but sort of awake. If all that fails, I stay awake thinking how I’m generally failing my children – OMG my first is going to be 13 which means I only have FIVE EFFING YEARS LEFT WITH HER and that makes me want to die and I’m so short-tempered and distant lately and working and stuff but it’s going to get even worse because 4^th baby and what the fuck were we even thinking as I sacrifice the good of my older kids for another baby and how do women do this why and for what? I’m ruining everything.

I do this for a couple hours until I realize I’m hungry. Then I fling my legs over the edge, pee, and eat some motherfucking almond butter. It’s super relaxing.

I love the 9^th month of pregnancy.

I’m anemic. Very anemic, apparently. Eating lots of steak and spinach.

In other news, iron pills sure have pleasant side effects!

My stomach is approximately ¼ of an inch in diameter and 2 inches from my throat. I like it like that. Hope it stays there.

I enjoy approximately 75,000 Braxton Hicks contractions a day. They don’t hurt, but damn they’re weird. Consulting with a student: “Pardon me, but the largest organ in my body is currently tightening, shoving a baby head further down onto my bladder than it was before, reminding me that I should not be here talking to you, but rather nesting or some shit, preparing somehow for that head to leave my body. Anywho, your thesis statement is not an argument.”

I miss the ability to see my vagina. Not that I ever spent quality time gazing at her, but it was rather comforting to know that I had the option to at least SEE HER, you know, in a pinch.

We bought a carseat. Therefore, we are prepared for baby.

Also, don’t worry. The nursery is done. Here’s a photo. Do you like our theme?

I really want to get my house clean before the baby comes, but I’m way too pregnant to clean the house before the baby comes, so basically, the task I’m trying to accomplish before an event will only become possible after the event, which leaves me in a super ridiculous quandary.

I should probably stop thinking about it and go eat some molasses cookies. Molasses has iron.

Four more weeks, bitches.

***********

And hey, friends & peeps in the Portland area, I have a new sponsor for you.

Meet Jocelyn Brown of Borealis, licensed midwife and doula. Jocelyn provides at-home midwifery care and

in-hospital support (as a doula).

Normally I write a paragraph about sponsors, but I’m going to let Jocelyn speak for herself on this one:

“My take on birth in Portland is that we have so many great choices for birthing here, and what people need help with is making a plan they can be at peace with.  I *love* home birth, and believe that it is safe, but no matter what, every woman should give birth where she believes *she* is safest and will have the best experience.  And if that’s in the hospital or on even on the operating table, that’s where I’m going to support her.”

HOW FREAKING BADASS IS THAT?

“I also believe that the out-of-hospital care providers and the in-hospital care providers need to start supporting each other and not persecuting each other – delaying a needed home birth transport because a midwife is afraid of facing the hospital staff is incredibly stupid and dangerous, and just feeds back into the perception that home birth midwives don’t practice safely.  Fortunately, there are a lot of people working on this process in Portland, both in and out of hospital. I’m constantly trying to educate clients about this.”

And just as good, when you’re in labor and call your husband a fucking douchecanoe, you KNOW Jocelyn won’t judge. Why? Because she reads this blog. BOOM.

Call her. Get supported. Birth.

Hey world. Check it out. I am not sick, disabled, handicapped or broken.

I am pregnant.

I am not frail, fragile, needy or excessively dependent.

I am pregnant.

I am not incapable, incapacitated or inept.

I AM FUCKING PREGNANT.

I’m not a rare flower. I am not delicate.  I am not a princess. I am barely even special.

I am engaging in an act as old and reliable and strong as humanity itself. We have, in fact, evidence of that.

I am in a condition that’s natural and appropriate for my body, not totally unlike breathing or walking or living or dying or taking a crap.

But you treat me like I’m some sort of poor incapable vessel.

Also, I’ve had it with your rules.

No lunch meat – and we mean it – no turkey, salami or ham. Make sure that steak isn’t rare! Cook those eggs thoroughly, nothing runny. No cookie dough kids! Nothing unpasteurized. Watch out for fish. Nothing raw. No stinky cheese, that includes Brie, feta, Camembert or anything with blue in it! Listeria! E-coli!

No coffee.

No wine.

Not a drop! Better safe than sorry.

Okay, maybe you can have one cup of coffee, but not two. Two is crossing the line.

Why must we be so fucking crazy?

You know what? I’m not gonna die if I have 2 or 3 cups of coffee one day when I’m having a rough one. And neither is my baby.

I’m not even going to die if I have a glass of (gasp!) wine.

Okay, I may actually die if I have a glass of wine but I’m a recovering alcoholic, I don’t count.

Maybe rather than lay down some insane irrational nutjob bullshit law like “Thou shalt not eat a bite of lunch meat for 10 months” we just, say, don’t eat it every single day, or we don’t eat if it’s from a questionable source, or we steer away from food left out for a few hours.

Maybe we just, OH I DON’T KNOW, be reasonable.

Think.

Balance things.

I know. Crazy talk.

Oh, and please let’s talk about the don’t lift this, don’t lift that, don’t push this or pull that you DELICATE VIOLET you’re gonna get hurt! Damaged! Poor little broken thing!

How about this? Bite me.

Don’t lift over 25 pounds? Really? Oh, ok cool. So I’ll just leave my sleeping toddler in the hot car when we roll into the drive way because I can’t carry her in the house at 37 pounds. Clearly.

That’s a solid plan.

When she throws herself on the ground in a tantrum or just plain old toddler fun-having and there’s a car trying to pass I’ll just look at the driver and be like “Sorry, can’t help you. Can’t pick her up. Against the rules! I’m pregnant. I’m fragile!”
I’ll just leave grocery bags in the car so food rots and not do housework or move unruly laundry baskets. And I’ll quit my job as this or that because we can’t stand too long and we can’t sit too long and we can’t lift heavy stuff and we must avoid jerky movements!

Look, maybe Gwenyth Paltrow can “consciously uncouple” from her life responsibilities or whatever the hell, but those of us on actual earth pretty much must keep on with life.

How about I just not be stupid, maybe not over-exert myself on a regular basis, cut down redwood trees or paint roofs while perched on a ladder?

Has the world lost it’s damn mind?

I’m pregnant, motherfuckers. NOT BROKEN.

Women have been doing this since the beginning of human time. The beginning of human time. This is not exaggeration. This is fact. Obviously.

They have worked in fields, in homes, built things carried things towed things. What happened in the old days? “Sorry, honey, can’t keep the house up. I’m with child.” Churn your own butter, asshole.

Well if that were true they’d never do a damn thing ever because they were pretty much always “with child.”

And I know, we’ve learned a lot, blah blah blah, and better safe than sorry, but at some point we crossed the line of reasonable caution and thoughtful awareness into full-blown panic and hysteria and I tell you it’s pure bullshit.

Pregnant woman are some of the strongest humans on the planet.

Stop telling use we’re weak. That we need books and experts and “professionals” to manage us and keep us safe and govern our uteri and bellies and minds.

Yeah, I know it works REALLY WELL to sell your “expert opinions” and “helpful advice” and rules and guidelines and latest studies so we can be managed and controlled and “taken care of” — sold the latest nonsense must-have baby item. I mean if you can create an entire population of women WHO THINK THEY NEED YOU, my god think of the dollar signs!

And you know what, I appreciate you when I actually need you. If my body or mind can’t hang, messes up, gets sick, or there is some other problem, I’m really, really glad you’re there. Your expertness and science and stuff.

But until further notice, I don’t need you. I’m doing just fine. Me and my uterus and logic (wait, do women have that?) are holding together just fine, as we’ve been doing since forever, dude. Forever.

Stop telling me I can’t, I need, I suck, because you know what? I birthed a 10-pound baby in a horse trough in my living room.

We birth babies, by vagina or knife. And then we get up, nurse them, hold them, carry on.

WE CARRY ON.

Through morning sickness and weakness and fatigue that knocks you to the bone we work, care for, build and carry the fuck on.

With huge bellies and crushed bladders and restless nights and aching hearts thinking of our lives and families and other children. We go.

With pain and discomfort and backs that cry for relief we go. We get up. We move. We live and birth and hold on.

Oh but you tell me I’m weak, I’m vulnerable, I’m broken and unaware and lost.
But never fear! Luckily you are here to tell me how to be pregnant, birth my child, feed, nurture and raise my child. Educate, hold and support my child. Discipline, feed and dress my child. Thank goodness you’re here to help the poor pregnant woman mother!

You’ve tried to break me. But I am not broken.

I am pregnant. (I thought we’ve been over this.)

And in five weeks I will have a baby, the perfect one for me, the one I know, the one who knows me.

I already know how to birth, hold, nurse and nurture that baby. My body is formed perfectly to the folds of his body. My heart pumps circles around her soul. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing, but by God I know better than you do. She is, after all, of me. Of us.

And yet you’ll still be there, chattering on like a mindless fucking monkey, telling me what and how and who and why.

I’ll laugh and turn my eyes to my newborn, who knows it too.

Hey mother, glad you’re here, and you’ve got everything you need.

Ya sure don’t look broken to me.

You know what I realized recently? My kids aren’t suffering enough.

Oh, come on. I don’t mean like that. Not suffering abuse or neglect or whatever. Get your head out of the gutter.

I’m talking about healthy suffering. Toil. Good ol’ fashioned WORK. I’m talking about discomfort, doing things repeatedly that are physically, mentally and emotionally unpleasant because you have to. Because it needs to get done. Because there’s nobody else to do it.

the man in question.

So, I have this husband who grew up on a ranch. Actually I only have one husband, but he did in fact grow up on a ranch. Eighty acres of farmland and a small, family run slaughterhouse (sorry, vegans). And from the time he was old enough to work (so like, 7? 8?) he was expected to, um, work. He had to get up and feed animals – when it was pouring rain, hailing, or Christmas. The animals don’t care. When it was 45 degrees or 106 degrees and a cow got out, he had to go handle it with his dad, whether or not he felt like it. I used to watch him catch chickens and my God he hated it. I’ve never seen a person more irritated. I could tell he was miserable, through and through.

There’s value in misery, I tell you.

And he worked in the slaughterhouse (still does, actually. In fact he’s there as I write this, at 7am on a Saturday). I’ll save you details but I’ll tell you this: It IS NOT pleasant. I don’t care how gently SouleMama makes it seem to slaughter turkeys or whatever the hell she does, it’s messy and disgusting and freezing cold (or stiflingly hot). It’s foul (fowl? hahaha. TELL ME I’M NOT FUNNY.) beyond recall. It’s physically exhausting, and it’s relentless.

But as a result of this relentlessness, his life reflects some principles that make him a damn fine human being (if I may say so myself), and something of a lost art.

He understands:

• The world is not here to cater to him.
• Hard work is a natural part of life.
• Physical discomfort is not that big of a deal.
• If something needs to get done, YOU FUCKING DO IT.

Sometimes it seems like we all work so hard to provide our kids “comfort” and “a nice childhood” that we forget that a good portion of life is just WORK: dirty, grimy, unpleasant. I mean, isn’t it? Isn’t a good part of your life doing things you don’t feel like doing?

Not that we’ll all be toiling on ranches under the beating sun, but rather, life requires the ethic that underlies that work, the willingness to do the damn job until it’s done because it needs to get done.  And even though you don’t want to, even though it’s terrible and unpleasant and exhausting, YOU DO IT ANYWAY.

Let me back up. Here’s what happened. One of my kids was purposely doing only half of an assigned daily chore because s/he found it distasteful to his/her delicate sensibilities. Vague enough for ya? Yeah, well the details don’t matter, and I don’t really want to call my kid out on the internet (well, not directly, at least). The point is the child was purposely deceiving us for a month because doing the unpleasant portion of the job was JUST TOO MUCH or whatever the hell. Couldn’t be bothered. Couldn’t be made to feel uncomfortable. I discovered this and was furious. I’m like wait. WHAT? On what planet does this make sense to you? Everybody in your world works, homie, and hard.

Georgie is ready to work.

Your dad is an ironworker who commutes 4 hours a day to provide for his family. Your mom is 8-months pregnant teaching 3 classes, trying to develop a freelance career and raising 3 other kids. We aren’t martyrs. We’re working people. Not because it’s glamorous, but because we want to eat.

Your grandparents work. Your great-grandparents STILL WORK. We aren’t some silver-spooned, Town & Country-reading douchecanoes who sit around basking in trust funds and lamenting the plight of the world. Come the hell on, kid!

But then I realized in a moment of painful self-honesty that my kids have never really been made to suffer much, to get their hands dirty, so why am I surprised? If life teaches you that comfort is the expected baseline, why would you ever accept the opposite? If daily existence confirms your right to unadulterated pleasantness, clearly unpleasantness is an anomaly to be avoided. Right?

I’m realizing that sometimes, kids need to work hard, really hard, against every shred of their desire. They need to be made uncomfortable. They need to get super freaking pissed off and do the work anyway.

At least, I think they do.

Yeah, my kids do chores (SORT OF), but rigorous work? Not so much.

Hours of work? Probably not.

Work that really, really pisses them off? Doubt it.

And this is supposed to be a good thing, right? These kids that have such a “nice life,” such a relaxed, supported life?

Right. Until they grow up to be the The Entitled Asshole in my English class. Oops. Was that my outside voice?

OF COURSE IT WAS and I MEANT IT.

I’ve seen the product of “Oh honey, the world is here to serve you” and people, it ain’t pretty. I’ve seen the product of “Dear, we’re all here to make you more comfortable” and “You shouldn’t have to suffer, sweetheart” and it manifests in an expectation that the world should love them for showing up, for breathing. It develops into an attitude of “well I’m here and I’m wonderful and I really feel like I should be able to do the bare minimum of work and you will compensate for my laziness because duh! I’m me!”

I’ve seen the results of the every-kid-deserves-a-trophy mentality* and I am here to tell you IT ISN’T WORKING.

Every kid does not deserve a motherfucking trophy.

You know who deserves a trophy? The kid who works the hardest. The kid who puts in the most time. The kid who shows up and BRINGS IT.

Alright fine. In tee-ball they all deserve a damn trophy, because they’re four.

But after that, kids deserve what they put in, nothing more and nothing less. And I’m not getting all “American bootstraps mentality for the win!” on ya. Come on. I know there’s more to the story than that, and hard work alone doesn’t guarantee “success” in the world, but I also know 100% that I cannot teach my kids the world is here to serve them, or even, really, as harsh as this sounds, that the world gives a shit about them. The world does not care about my kids. The world cares about itself.

My job is teach my kids to ask themselves “What can I contribute to the world?” Rather than “What can I take from it?” So many takers. I want to raise givers. Imagine if we all raised kids who grew up asking what they could contribute to the situation, to each other, to the world?

Okay, John Lennon, settle down.

But seriously, that wouldn’t suck.

And since right now my husband and I and this house are their “world,” we’re going to start with some gardening in the hot sun, some washing of floors and some Saturdays spent cleaning and organizing and sweating, a lot, all day. And there will be no trophies given.

The trophy is knowing you did it, and you did it well, even when nobody was looking, even when you didn’t feel like, because it had to be done, and you, thank goodness, were there to do it. There’s an unparalleled sense of satisfaction there, when you give, when you work your hardest, for yourself and others, because you were needed.

And if there isn’t satisfaction, get over it. Not all endeavors in life are infinitely fulfilling. You did the work necessary because you understand that sometimes work is necessary. And that alone sets you above Entitled Douchebag status, which, I’m sure we can all agree, is a win.

HA! OMG. There. There’s your trophy, kid: You aren’t an entitled douchebag. 

You can thank me later.

*Note: I did not invent the trophy thing. Somebody told it to me and I stole it but for the life of my I cannot remember who said it. So, if you’re reading this and you’re the one who said it: 1.) you’re a genius; 2.) sorry for stealing your shit; and 3.) tell me and I’ll cite you, MLA style.